


The Gentle Art of Making Enemies

by dandyqueen



Category: Grand Theft Auto Series (Video Games), Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Organized Crime, Women Being Awesome, and there's smut from the get-go, canon compliant until its not, general mayhem, guys being dudes, look at all the crime, look at all the smut, look you've played the game you know how this works
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:00:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 69,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23780440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandyqueen/pseuds/dandyqueen
Summary: Los Santos is a hellscape, but if you've got brains and a little determination, it can be a real hell of a playground. Michael needs money, Trevor needs whatever Trevor wants, and Franklin's moving up in Los Santos. Jen's just along for the ride.This is gonna be fun.
Relationships: Michael De Santa/Original Female Character(s), Michael De Santa/Trevor Philips, Michael De Santa/Trevor Philips/Original Female Character(s), Trevor Philips/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 53
Kudos: 58





	1. Main Mission // The Vangelico Setup

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing this beast of a thing since 2013. It's been through a thousand different incarnations, but it's been in my drafts for the last six years. I realize this fandom isn't as popular as it used to be, but I might as well have a little fun and finally start posting it.
> 
> You've played the game, you know how this goes. There's not a damn thing here that's even slightly appropriate. That being said, there's canon-typical smut from the get-go. Let's do this.

Jen was having a fuckin' great morning. She'd finished early in court that morning, so she didn't have to keep waiting around for everyone else to finish up their motions before she could go back to her office. Two motions ruled in her favor, notification of a winning appellate brief, and no pisant Agency yahoos snooping around the office. And now she could actually finish her work - truly, the makings of a _fantastic_ day.

As the District Attorney of good ol’ Los Santos, she got the nice corner office. It was sparsely decorated with a few personal mementos, but more importantly, it was a good, functional work space. She'd closed her office door - the universal sign of _go away_ \- and plugged in her headphones for a little too-expensive noise-cancelling zen. She had two open documents on her computer for briefs to be written and a casebook in front of her for research. _And_ she'd get to go to lunch in an hour. Seriously, if the rest of her day would proceed just as easily, she'd be in truly rare form.

She hummed along to her zen playlist, typing away at her computer, until she heard, just faintly, a knock on her office door. Normally, she’d ignore the knock, but it might be her case manager. She pulled one earphone out of her ear and yelled for her visitor to enter.

It wasn’t the case manager. Michael de Santa, dressed to the nines in a gray suit and tie, sunglasses tucked into his jacket pocket, slid his way into Jen’s office. Despite the easy grin on his face and his attempt to look more important than anyone else in the building, he seemed a mite uncomfortable. Being in the DA’s office with a criminal record will do that.

"Mornin', gorgeous," Michael said. He took a seat in one of her upholstered office chairs. The chair was burgundy - hideous. He made it look a good sight better. “Didn’t think you’d actually be in your office.”

“I’m just as surprised as you are. Didn’t have much on the calendar this morning.” Jen gave him a clean once-over. “Well, don’t you look spiffy. What are you here for? You usually avoid this place like the plague.”

“I’m comin’ to take you to lunch!” he replied, leaning forward in his chair. The easy grin was back full force, and he did seem a fair bit more comfortable in her office with the door closed. He glanced at the documents standing in sentry-like neat stacks on her desk. “If you’ve got time, that is.”

Jen couldn’t hide her surprise - she raised her eyebrows. It wasn’t like him to come down to her office to take her to lunch in the middle of the week. Michael _might_ meet her for lunch on a Friday if both of them had time, but he didn’t just waltz his way into her office on the regular. She couldn’t imagine how he got back to her office in the first place; the receptionist and front desk security guard would’ve had to buzz him in, and he didn’t look remotely trustworthy enough for that, even despite the neatly tailored suit.

“Yeah, I’ve got time. I was going to head out after I finish this brief,” Jen said, tapping away at her keyboard. “Give me just a second. And stop reading my paperwork - you know I’ll tell you what’s in it later anyway.”

Michael gingerly placed the documents he’d been skimming back on her desk. Jen got twitchy if things were out of place, and he really didn't need her to be irritable right now. “I don’t know what any of this stuff says anyway. Why do you lawyers have to write like that in the first place?”

“Because if we didn’t, every yahoo with a computer would fill out a bunch of MyLawForms paperwork to file and we wouldn’t get paid as much.”

“Job security,” he replied, nodding. “That’s fair.”

Jen closed her laptop, grabbed her bag and blazer, and stepped out from behind her desk. “Ready when you are. Where are we headed?”

“Natalia’s.”

Jen, again, couldn’t hide her surprise. Natalia's was _the_ Italian restaurant - Michael's favorite. “That’s pretty fancy for a Wednesday lunch, big spender. What’s your angle here? Handjob in the car after dessert?”

Michael laughed, and Jen was gently reminded how he could have talked his way back into her office. He had an easy laugh and an infuriating charm when he wanted to - the kind of self-assured air of which some lawyers could only dream.

"We've got something to discuss, away from here," Michael replied, hand on her office door. "But if you wanna throw in the handjob, I ain't gonna say no."

"Depends on what you want to discuss. We'll see how you behave at lunch and maybe I'll throw you a bone," Jen winked, sliding past him. She led him back down the hallway to the front desk, swiping her badge so she could exit. "You’re driving."

She opened the door into the receptionist area and held it open for Michael to walk through. The receptionist, Mary, waved vigorously at them as they passed. Mary was a Liberty City transplant; she still had the accent even after ten years in Los Santos.

"Jenny!" Mary exclaimed, waving her over. Jen flinched at the nickname, which Michael caught out of the corner of his eye. "It's so sweet that your fiance is comin' to take you to lunch. He's so charming! And cute!"

Mary dragged out the last syllable of cute. Jen fought back a snicker. Michael, her fiance? She bet he was getting a real kick out of this.

"Well, you know, I've got him trained pretty well by now," Jen said, smirking. Michael had a big fuckin' ego, so that oughta teach him. "Listen, Mary, I'm gonna be gone for awhile. I'm taking a long lunch."

"No explanation needed!" Mary replied, winking at Michael. “Let him wine and dine you a little bit, Jenny!”

Jen gritted her teeth this time, on the delicate verge of reminding Mary not to call her Jenny, but Michael caught her before she could open her mouth. He smirked and wrapped an arm around Jen's shoulders, moreso to hold her in place and remind her they had places to be. 

He grinned. "I know my place."

"Oh, I'm gonna show you your place when we get out of here," Jen replied, bumping him with her shoulder. She led him to the door. "See ya, Mary. Can you buzz us out?"

As soon as the door closed behind them, she thumped his arm. "You told her you were my fiance? Where's my ring, Mike?"

"It's at the jeweler's," Michael replied, shrugging. Jen rolled her eyes and led him through the courthouse atrium. "Hey, I'll buy you a ring if you want a ring. Something real shiny!"

Jen smirked once she had her back turned to him. It _was_ kind of funny, especially since most of the office knew he definitely was not her fiance. That, at least, was common knowledge around the office. "I'll buy my own goddamn ring. You can buy me a drink instead."

"Done.”

They exited the courthouse through the employee entrance in the back and headed out to Michael’s car. He’d parked his black Tailgater next to her white Schwartzer in employee parking. She didn’t mention that he’d parked in the Public Defender’s spot again (she’d end up getting another angry email later). He opened the door for her and waited for her to climb inside before climbing into the driver’s seat.

"I did get you something, actually." He reached into the backseat of his sedan and handed her a blue bag. “It’s not a ring, but I think you’ll like it.”

It was a necklace - small and dainty, nothing ostentatious, but simple and pretty. Jen leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Whatever you want to talk about at lunch must be a real doozy if you’re handing out jewelry beforehand instead of after. But thank you - it’s pretty.”

“You’re welcome. And yeah, you’re gonna want something pretty _after_ lunch, too.”

"That bad, huh?"

"You're not gonna be real happy if that's what you're asking."

She shrugged, draping the dainty necklace around her neck. "Whatever it is, I'm sure I can handle it."

"All I'll say is I'm gonna need your help."

* * *

Their table was nestled in the very back corner of the restaurant, secluded and just out of sight from the rest of the restaurant. It was their regular spot; the hostess knew them both well enough to just wave them to the back of the restaurant whenever they walked in. This particular table had a perfect vantage point of every point in the room - the front door, the cash register, the exits. Everything lined up swimmingly to make sure that no one of any interest would be listening, whether or not there was anything interesting to listen to.

“I’m doing a job,” Michael said simply.

He leaned back in his seat, waiting for her reaction. Jen had a poker face to beat the devil himself, but Michael knew her tells. He could usually tell when he was about to get an earful, but her ever-simmering temper didn't seem to be bubbling up just yet. Her answering voice was carefully even, betraying nothing. Whatever she was thinking, Michael knew he was probably in the clear.

“Explain.” Jen leaned against the lip of the table, taking a sip of her drink. She was more than aware of Michael’s past. Witness protection could only keep so much on lockdown and he’d told her about some of the shady shit he'd done back in the day himself (mostly to brag about his accomplishments). “Why do you need to do a job? Don’t you have a pretty nice stash tucked away somewhere?”

“Technically, yeah,” Michael replied, checking the front door of the restaurant. He’d do it every so often, and he’d done that for as long as Jen had known him - always _looking looking looking_. To say Michael was unobservant was to make a grand misjudgment of his character; he was obtuse sometimes, inherently over self-involved, but never totally oblivious. At least, not when it came to matters of life and death. “Did you hear about that house that got pulled down up near Vinewood?"

"Yeah, it was one of Martin Madrazo's properties. We've been watching that house for years - it's a multimillion dollar cocaine den. He puts his mistresses up in that one. " Jen narrowed her eyes. "Why? What did you do, Mike?"

Michael shifted in his seat. "I may have… pulled it down off the cliff."

"Jesus! What the hell? Are you trying to get dusted?"

"I didn't know it was his! I didn’t know who he was until a few days ago!" Michael pursed his lips and took a sip of his drink. He'd ordered a scotch, which he'd almost totally finished off already. "Amanda's been fucking her tennis coach. I guess he's friends with one of Madrazo's mistresses, since he was shacked up there when I found him. I may have… overreacted a little."

Jen's mouth hung open. She shook her head when she realized it. "That's a lot to unpack there, Michael. Sorry about Amanda, I guess. Why didn't you check to make sure it was the guy's house?" She paused before he could reply. "You know what, I don't want to know. I don't work the property cases anymore, but I'll try to direct the investigation as a structural fault in the foundation. Madrazo is federal business anyway, not the state. We don't want anything to do with him."

"Well, he's all but shown me what he's gonna do if I don't foot the bill for reparations." Michael leaned back in his seat, eyeing Jen evenly. "I'm not asking for much, but I just need you to do a little something for me.”

“Create a distraction? Keep the heat off?”

“Bingo,” Michael replied, smirking. This was one of the many reasons why he liked Jen - not too many questions about the shady shit beyond what he’d told her (and he’d told her quite a lot over the years) and enough brains to know what needed to be done. She’d make a killing in the game if she’d go all in, but Michael knew she wouldn’t, not without proof of return results, at least. But she’d get that proof after this job. He'd make sure of it. “This job is gonna make some noise. The less heat on us, the better.”

“I’ll make sure my investigators are somewhere remote for the day. We just had another hitchhiker murder out in Sandy Shores, so I’ll send the heat up there and no one will put it together.”

The murder didn’t exactly need to be investigated this quickly. She already had an idea of who was behind it - the Lost MC chapter of Blaine County had gotten some new members after the Liberty City chapter had been run out of their homes five years ago, and the whole combined group was making a mess of things. She'd heard that the Lost's meth business was dying on account of the club members being their own best customers. She'd also heard that the Aztecas and a squadron of rednecks were trying to cut in on their business - for good. Most likely, she could organize some sort of small sting and get a squad up into the desert. That should keep enough of the heat out of Los Santos for the day.

“Sounds perfect. I’m gonna give you the phone number for a friend of mine so you’ll have the ID in case he calls you,” Michael replied. Jen handed her phone over so that he could put it in. “He won’t, most likely, but there’s always a chance he might want to negotiate something in the future - if you’re interested.”

“Oh, I’m always interested in making friends here in Los Santos, Michael,” Jen replied. She took a sip of her drink.

“That’s my girl,” Michael grinned, taking the check from the waiter when he came back around. He left a few bills on the table and motioned for Jen to follow him. “Let’s go - you’ve still got an hour for lunch, right?”

Jen smirked and followed him towards the door. “I’ve got as long as I want.”

“Feel like making a quick detour before I take you back to work?”

Jen opened her car door and hopped inside. “You’re driving.”

Michael pulled out of the parking lot and headed in the general-but-not-quite direction of the courthouse. He’d hardly rounded two blocks before his hand was on her knee, just above the hem of her skirt.

“Easy there, big spender,” Jen said, raising her eyebrows. She leaned against the window and stared up at the towering buildings dotting the streets. “You haven’t even found somewhere quiet to park.”

Michael slid his hand a little farther up her thigh, the tips of his fingers tickling the soft skin of her inner thigh. "You really wanna wait that long?"

Jen shifted her leg to give him a more advantageous angle. They'd done this a thousand times before, usually after a long dinner when Michael couldn't wait long enough to get back to her apartment. Or when he'd done something stupid and he was trying to use sex as a bargaining tool (it rarely worked with her, but she did appreciate the effort). Her knee bumped comfortably against the gear shift as he trailed his fingers up, up, _up_.

"You must be thinking this job isn't gonna go your way," Jen said. She leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes as Michael's index finger ran softly up the line of her underwear. "If you're handing out jewelry and taking me to lunch at Natalia's on a Wednesday and finger-fucking me on my lunch break."

Michael pressed his finger against her still-clothed clit, his knuckles drawing circles against her slit. He dipped his finger past the line of her underwear and found that she was slick. He pressed his ring finger against her opening, sliding that single digit home. "Ah, I should do that more often anyway."

Jen grabbed his wrist and pressed his hand against her, sliding his finger in deeper. "You're deflecting."

"You really wanna talk about this while I'm finger-fucking you?" Michael said, huffing out a short laugh. He slid a second finger in, curling and rubbing at the slick, soft spot just under the tips of his fingers. "You're fuckin’ persistant."

She sighed softly, spreading her legs wider, her cunt clenching down around his fingers. His cock twitched painfully against his zipper, and he fervently wished he'd just pulled over. She loved this, and he loved that she loved it - the recklessness of it and the thrill of mild exhibitionism got him going like nothing else.

She groaned softly and rutted against his hand, squeezing his wrist hard enough to give him a good cramp. "Wouldn’t be sitting here with you if I wasn’t persistent. Fine - later, but you're not getting out of talking about it, not if I'm getting involved in the revival of your criminal enterprise."

"Fair enough," Michael replied. He added a third finger, pleased by the low groan she made in the back of her throat. "Now, relax and let me work."

Michael pushed his fingers in and pressed down on her clit with his thumb. Her grip on his wrist tightened, manicured nails digging into his skin. There would be little half-moon indentions in his skin, but he could cover that up with a watch or something. She tended to get rough and scratch him, but he liked it that way. It made him feel like he was doing a good job.

“Mike, please,” Jen whined. “You gotta pull over.”

“Alright, alright. You ain't gotta tell me twice.”

He ducked into a parking garage and swung into a spot. She barely gave him enough time to change gears and slide the seat back before she was climbing into his lap. He grabbed her hips to keep her steady. He loved when she did this - pawing at his zipper, pulling his tie, kissing him so hard their teeth clacked together. He'd gotten used to being the dominant one in every relationship until he'd met her, and he'd found he liked her methods just fine. Not to say that he wouldn't pin her down if he could get her to hold still, but he was more than happy to let her do the work most of the time.

She pulled his cock out and sank down on him, grinding her hips against his. He pressed his face into her neck and held her steady as she rocked up against him. She finished quickly, her nails digging into the back of his neck, and he was right behind her. 

Once she was done, she lifted herself off of him and sat in his lap for a few seconds, forehead pressed to his. He caught the faintest whiff of her perfume - warm and citrusy, almost like cloves. She’d worn the same scent for as long as he’d known her.

Michael chuckled at her contented face. “Couldn’t wait, I guess?”

"Not when you look this good, no."

"I guess you want me to take you back to work, right?"

"Not really, but I guess I _have_ to go back."

"Eh, you could always take the rest of the day off..."

"Ordinarily, I might be inclined to do that." Jen climbed out of his lap and situated herself back in the seat, smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirt. Her underwear had fallen out of reach somewhere, probably under the seat. "But if I'm setting up paperwork for an investigation in Blaine County on a certain day, I should probably start writing up the request."

"Fuckin’ A! Let’s get you back, then."


	2. Strangers & Freaks // Franklin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Franklin doesn't get enough love in these fics. Let's do this.

The Agency had been snooping around the office again. Ever since the IAA’s stateside puppet had been voted out of office in favor of Jen, they’d been doing everything in their power to get to her. Jen was used to the heat; they’d get a little bored and come around again, always searching for something to use to pin election fraud on her. Funny enough, there was nothing to get. She couldn’t say she’d done a lot of things fair and clean in her life, but this might be one of the few honest things she’d ever done.

And anytime the Agency came snooping, the FIB was always right behind them. They’d quietly backed her in the election, much to her displeasure. She’d really prefer everyone left her alone, but this was Los Santos, so everyone wanted a piece of the pie.

The FIB had assigned a few different agents to babysit her over the past couple of years, but once they’d caught wind of her dating situation, they’d started sending Steve Haines and Dave Norton to check in on her. And, of course, when Jen got to work that morning, they were both standing in her office.

Jen closed her office door gently behind her. “It’s a little early for you two to be here - I should have bought an extra coffee to not share with you.”

Dave was okay for the most part. He was paunchy and gruff, a middle-aged divorcee, and stereotypically average in every way. Haines could fall off a cliff. The golf dad attire and air of unquestioned authority made her eye twitch. And he always wore a little too much makeup, yet blamed it on his hair and makeup people. What a dick.

Jen pushed past Haines without a greeting so she could get to her desk. She threw her suit jacket over the back of her chair and took a seat, waiting for them to open their mouths about why they were there. Usually, it was nothing more than a cursory reminder that she required a babysitter. Sometimes, they had real business. Mostly, it was an unnecessary hassle that made Jen really glad that she kept a handle of gin in her desk drawer.

She fixed an even stare on Dave Norton, all but ignoring Haines, and crossed her arms. “Dave - always a pleasure. Agent Haines, you're here again. What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

Dave sat down on her office couch while Haines took the chair immediately in front of her. Wonderful, they were settling in for a full morning meeting. She’d have to remember to disinfect after they left.

"Sorry to drop in without warning, Jenny-"

"Are you, though?"

Haines ignored her. "But we have business to discuss."

“The IAA is once again attempting to allege election fraud,” Dave said, getting right to the point. “We’re here to provide the illusion that you are well-protected from any such allegations.”

Jen sighed. “I know the drill. I have a clean record, no disciplinary actions, and no access to election software.”

“Of which they are aware, but they have a lot of funding and ample time to fuck around with whatever they like,” Dave replied.

Ever the impatient one, Haines once again made his presence known. Jen had never liked a man who threw his weight around with nothing to back it up, so she certainly didn't like Steve Haines. She couldn't imagine many people did.

“Enough about all that,” Haines snapped, waving his hand. “We've got your image under control. We’re here about the hitchhiker murders. What are you doing about that?”

"I'm sending a squadron of LSPD tactical teams to assess the situation within the next couple of weeks."

"Is that much force necessary?"

Jen was well-known for her reluctance to involve the LSPD any more than necessary, but she'd anticipated some push-back from the feds. "Not if it's the Altruists again, but there's evidence to say it may be the Lost MC or possibly the Aztecas. I've gotten word of another gun-runner popping up as well, but I haven't pinned that one down quite yet."

"And you're preparing for what exactly?"

"Being that the Lost and the Aztecas are methed-up and trigger-happy, I think it's fair to say we may not be welcomed warmly in Blaine County."

Haines nodded, satisfied. "Swiftly and with force - I've always liked your style, Jenny."

"Not enough to know not to call me Jenny, it seems."

Dave, sensing it was time to derail that particular train of conversation, took the opportunity to cut in. "And if it's just the Altruists again?"

Jen bit her tongue. "Then we take the loss of funding and turn it over to you boys. Cults are squarely outside of our jurisdiction."

"You've thought this through."

"I earn my paycheck, Dave," Jen grinned. "Do you?"

"I've certainly earned my paycheck today." Dave didn't know if she knew about the payments Michael made to him monthly, but she had a way of discovering shit like that without being told anyway. "Unless Agent Haines has any further business, I think we're done here."

Haines leaned back in his chair. "Oh, I could stay here all day, but I have to get to hair and makeup. I'm shooting a new episode of my show today."

"I'm sure that takes a while."

Haines finally got up and followed Dave to the door. "We'll be around, Jenny."

Jen opened her mouth, but Dave cut her off. "It's not worth it, Jen."

"He'll get his someday," Jen replied. "Pleasure doing business as always, Dave."

Dave shut the door behind him with a short warning. "Behave."

Jen sighed. There went her whole day, all because of an hour-long conversation. If it was just Dave Norton dropping in, she'd have no problem. It was dealing with Haines that exhausted her. He had a way of sucking all the energy out of the room with the sheer amount of assholery he generated. 

She was definitely taking a long lunch today.

Jen had all but settled in to finally get to work when her phone ran. It wasn't her office phone - her personal phone vibrated in her desk drawer. The number on the face was a new one, but one she was glad to see.

"Jen Dixon, at your service."

The voice on the other end was wheezy and nasally, but it came through the speaker clearly enough. "I'm guessing Michael gave you this number."

"If this is Lester Crest, then yes."

"Oh, great, another biting sense of sarcasm." Lester wheezed, but he seemed amused. "I wasn't planning on calling you in personally on anything just yet, but I think your assistance would prove useful today."

"Glad you think so. What can I do for you, Lester?"

"Come to the warehouse this afternoon. We're wrapping up the finishing touches on what you and Michael discussed."

"Text me the address and the time. I'll be there."

"Excellent. Normally, I wouldn't have you come to the warehouse, but this works better if you see what’s going on. Don’t be late."

"Duly noted."

The line went dead without a goodbye. Lester seemed like the type to leave a conversation on a cliffhanger, so she wasn't disappointed. Her phone buzzed a few seconds later with a text detailing the location of the warehouse.

She slid the phone back in her desk drawer. She'd better get to work if she was going to be leaving early.

* * *

Jen wasn’t exactly a stranger to the game. She’d been a rowdy teenager - defaced some property, stole from the liquor store. Dumb shit. Whatever it took to stave off the boredom of growing up in a town of less than three-thousand people. Yeah, it had been a problem when it came to applying for college, but her grades spoke for themselves - she’d just had to promise that she’d never, ever do it again.

But a little light defacement was nothing compared to this. 

Lester had summoned her to the warehouse, much to her surprise. When Michael asked her to get involved, she’d thought this would be a hands-off kind of thing. Most likely, Lester was calling her in to make sure she knew that he had enough information on her to make her life miserable should she make any moves he didn’t like. She had no interest in that - she’d been promised a handsome pay-off more than worth the trouble and danger of getting caught.

Jen parked next to Michael’s car and trudged up the flight of stairs to Lester’s office. There were several ladies working in the warehouse, and none of them looked thrilled to be there. She could see why - the whole place smelled like sweat.

Michael and Lester were already there, as well as another man Jen didn’t know. She presumed this was Franklin, and found that she was right. Michael waved her in the office so that he could introduce her to everyone.

“Franklin, this is Jen,” Michael said, motioning between them. “Jen, Franklin.”

She shook his hand. “You’re the repo guy, right? Saved Jimmy’s ass?”

Franklin snorted and took her hand. “Yeah, that’s me. You’re the, uh-”

“Side piece,” Jen smirked, winking at him.

“Shit, I was gonna say the DA, but that works, too.”

“Figured we probably didn’t want to throw the ‘DA’ term around too much,” Jen replied. She moved to stand on Franklin’s unoccupied side. “Nice to meet you, Franklin. Michael thinks highly of you.”

“Alright, alright,” Lester said. “You’re making me nauseous. Let’s talk about the job at hand.”

"Done," Jen replied, cutting her eyes at Michael with a short grin.

Jen had never seen Michael do anything more strenuous than finish an intense round of golf, so she was rightfully excited to watch him handle something so squarely in his wheelhouse. She was aware of his past glories - some were almost too good to be true. She'd seen the scars from knife wounds and bullet holes though, so it wasn't that too good to be true.

Michael was a real professional, and it was a sight to watch him work. 

She stood off to the side, peering over his shoulder as he stabbed pins into a corkboard and connected everything together into a fairly seamless plan. Lester made comments as he went, prompting Michael's usual snapping remarks and huffy attitude. Lester was a pro at ignoring the biting tongue and took it all in stride, much to Jen’s amusement. What must they be like as a pair outside of business?

Occasionally, Michael would ask for Franklin's input. Perhaps it was out of a sense of courtesy or maybe the desire to give Franklin a more active role in making decisions, but surprisingly Michael took much of his advice. Sometimes, he'd look over his shoulder at Jen and ask about something to do with the LSPD. 

"Alright, we've got the finer points down," Michael said, stabbing one last pin into the corkboard. "Crew's been chosen, roles are in place, date and time down. Jen, how's our distraction coming along?"

Jen had been done with that for weeks already. "All warrants are in place and requests have been made. Looks perfectly legitimate - and it is. The feds have been on my ass about it, so it’s actually helping me, too. Blaine County isn't equipped to organize a sting like this, so LSPD is coming up to handle things. That should take most of the serious heat off of you."

"Fantastic."

"Now, we've just gotta rob a jewelry store," Franklin finished. 

"We do the job, get the gems turned over, pay Madrazo," Michael said, "and we move on to better jobs. "

“Alright,” Lester said, leading them out of his office. “We meet back here next week - Jen notwithstanding - and we’ll get this show on the road.”

Jen followed the boys outside, taking note of everything in the warehouse. Lester obviously didn’t care much for his employees or really even the business itself. The place was a sweatshop, barely above board. It was probably just a cover to make himself look legitimate, but even still, it was less than stellar.

She caught Franklin at his car (shit, that was a nice car). “Here’s my number. I’m guessing your record is pretty clean if I’ve never met you before today, but you’re about to get into some heavy shit. If you need a stateside friend, you call me.”

“She’s good for traffic tickets!” Michael called from his car.

“You would know!”

Franklin laughed. “Alright, thanks.”

Jen walked over to Michael’s car, waving behind her. “Nice to meet you, Franklin!”

Michael leaned over the hood of his Tailgater. He’d been apprehensive about having Jen physically show up to the warehouse. It was one thing for her to help them out from the sidelines, but this could put her directly in danger before she knew what she was in for. Not to mention, she was a pretty public figure around Los Santos - one wrong person sees her walking into the warehouse and their cover could be blown. Lester knew what he was doing, though - Michael just had to trust him.

“I feel like you just took me to an office party, Mike,” Jen teased, leaning against the Tailgater. “I’ve never seen you so serious. It’s a good look for you.”

He laughed. “You handled yourself well.”

“Well, I like your work friends much better than mine.”

Michael climbed into his car and rolled the passenger-side window down. “You got a little time?”

“For you? Always.” She climbed into her car. “Meet me at my apartment and we’ll order in for dinner?”

“Race you there!”

* * *

Jen rarely had a Saturday all to herself. She was either prepping for work the next week, maybe helping another attorney prep their caseload. She had errands to run, people to see - always something to do. Usually, it was fine, but she’d gone a bit stir-crazy as of late. That’s when she’d normally call Michael, but he was making a spirited attempt to connect with his kids this weekend (she’d get to hear how that disaster went later). 

She could call some of her friends, she supposed. Mary Ann maybe, but she didn’t feel like going on a ten-mile run, as was Mary Ann’s usual suggestion. Gracie was back in Liberty City, Antonia was somewhere else entirely. She didn’t feel like hanging out with any of her lawyer friends - they only talked about work. So, she made the executive decision to make a new friend.

Franklin answered on the third ring. “Jen?”

“You got it,” Jen said. “You busy?”

“Not at the moment, no. Why?”

“I got nothing to do for the day - wanna hang out?”

“Uh, sure?”

“Excellent! I’ll text you my address. Swing by and pick me up.” 

Franklin arrived within the hour. Jen hopped into the passenger seat of his car. She angled the AC vents towards her face and leaned her head back against the headrest. She loved this car - it was loud and tricked out, leather seats, the works. She should really upgrade - her Schwartzer was old and dated. 

Franklin pulled out into traffic. “Alright, so why’d you wanna hang out with me? Don’t you have lawyer friends or somethin’?”

“Plenty of them. They’re all shitty people and they all want to talk about work. And not the fun stuff like the drama and scandal - the unsexy paperwork part.”

“So you picked me instead of Michael?”

“I just wanted to ride in the fun car,” Jen replied, winking at him. Franklin rolled his eyes, clearly waiting for a real answer. “Michael’s trying to be nice to his kids for once. Besides, Michael takes effort. He wants to go get dinner and drinks, watch old movies, and fuck on my couch. I love doing all these things, but just because I love doing them doesn’t mean I want to do them all the time. Plus, you’re a chill guy - why not?”

Franklin didn’t get to do much of anything without Lamar hanging off his arm or the fear of being shot in the back of the head in Chamberlain Hills. Up here in Vinewood, he didn’t know anybody and nobody knew him. “Works for me.”

They drove in silence for a while - a good, comfortable silence. Franklin was used to whoever was in his car yammering away, talking about big plans and dumb shit they were trying to pull off. Jen just wanted to hang out with someone who didn’t ask too many questions about work. Win-win.

But in the end, the silence was deafening for Franklin. He asked the only thing he really knew to ask. “So, uh, how’d you meet Michael?”

“You really want to talk about your work dad?”

Franklin sighed. “I just can’t figure out the dynamic between you two. He’s… and you’re…”

“We met in a bar.”

“That explains a lot.”

Jen watched the condos and bungalows turn to office buildings and skyscrapers. Franklin drove them past the line of upscale Vinewood bars and clubs - clubs too niche and tightly-managed for either one of them to be interested in trying to get into. He crept along through traffic, searching for a movie theater or a cheap bar to stop at.

They passed Chico’s and Tequi-la-la’s - her two favorite places. Chico’s was still an old pool hall in serious need of renovation. Tequi-la-la’s was a pretty upscale club now, but she liked going when she needed a girls’ night out. She’d met Michael at Tequi-la-la’s back when it had still been a dive bar for the professional crowd. She was slammed by nostalgia every time she saw the place - the expensive suit, the nice cologne, the clean-shaven face. She could almost feel Michael’s mouth on her as he pressed her up against his car before taking her home that night. 

Fun times. She really needed him for a weekend.

“I moved to Los Santos right out of law school. I’d just started as a prosecutor here working the Blaine County property crimes. My family lives three thousand miles away, so it was really just me and a few work friends hanging out.” Jen looked out of the window, staring out at the Los Santos skyline. “I’ve never been great at commitment, but it’s nice to have a little romance every now and then. So, I figured I’d look for something low-maintenance: a guy with lots of money, still relatively young but past his prime, maybe an inattentive wife.”

Franklin snorted. “Well, damn. You hit the jackpot.”

“Did I ever,” Jen laughed. “I figured, maybe I’ll keep him around for a couple of years until I get my loans paid off. Then, I could buy a cute little house near the beach and maybe look for an actual relationship.”

“So what happened?”

“Plans don’t always work out,” Jen said, shrugging. “I went out to Tequi-la-la’s with some friends one night and someone sends me a drink, right? And I don’t accept drinks from guys in bars, but I figured I’d take the bait this time. So, I asked the bartender who sent it, he points out Michael. Boom - pretty much what I was looking for.”

“Right.”

“So, I walked up and introduced myself. And here we are, six years later.”

“The Los Santos love story…”

“Some kinda love story,” Jen scoffed. “Hey, you wanna go to the Unicorn?"

"The strip club?"

"Yeah, why not? Drinks on me."

"Well, shit, I ain’t gonna say no to that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The smut may have skipped this chapter, but fear not, shenanigans await.


	3. Flashback // Casino

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashbacks. I love flashbacks. You love flashbacks. We all love flashbacks. So let's do that.

Jen had moved to Los Santos precisely six days, four hours, and thirty-two minutes ago. She obviously didn't know that - that would be ridiculous. What she did know was that every minute in the big city was costing her money that she desperately needed to make.

She'd been employed by the Los Santos County District Attorney's office for five of those six days. Being a low-rung ADA didn't pay what anyone who'd wasted seven years in college wanted it to, and she hadn't been assigned to the division she wanted. Property crimes - not even close to where she wanted to be. Putting two-bit hoods and wanna-be career criminals in prison for two to five years? Not the game she wanted to play. They were too easy. She knew all the tricks of the trade, from the run-of-the-mill theft by receiving stolen property (store it in the storage unit and use someone else's code) to real burglaries (second-story window and make your way down). And she oughta know - she'd been a rowdy kid back in the day.

No, property crimes were boring. Drug crimes, even worse. She wanted to do the sexy stuff - major crimes - but that was a long way off. For now, she'd have to deal with thieves and bungled burglaries.

Jen's problem at that point, other than the lack of mental stimulation and mediocre salary, was that she hadn't seen a paycheck yet. The safe parts of Los Santos were expensive, and, yeah, Vespucci Beach was fine, but she didn't want to live there longer than necessary. Fine, her job paid okay (not even close to what private sector lawyers billed) and she had benefits, she just needed to _see_ them.

She could always get a sugar daddy, she supposed. She'd made the San Andreas Switch: dyed her natural carrot-top curls bottle blonde and flattened them out pin-straight, fake tan, and padded Spanx. She'd always been thick, but that horrible slim-thick trend was all the rage right now, and San Andreas as a whole - and more specifically Los Santos - was all about the trends. Her friends in undergrad and law school had sugar daddies, and it worked out just fine for them. Might at well give it a shot.

It was Thursday night in Vinewood Hills - not exactly prime pickings, but Thirsty Thursday was as good a place as any to start. She could probably find a lawyer (they drank every night of the week) or a bored doctor. And it didn't necessarily have to be a sugar daddy either; she'd be just fine calling some old cougar mama if she was dropping the cash.

The District Attorney's office had exactly three other female prosecutors, and they'd very kindly invited her out to Tequi-la-la's with them. Thankfully, after a few lunches and outings, the ladies had mercifully absorbed her into their ranks like an amoeba into a petri dish. They didn't have so much a friendship as they did an impenetrable coalition born out of a necessity to keep male lawyers at spitting distance.

Tequi-la-la's looked like every other Everyman Bar Jen had ever been in. When they arrived at the bar, it was early enough that the environment was still pretty tame. A few people were already toasted, but for the most part, the drink count was hovering around two a person. And it seemed like mostly the late-20's/early-mid-30's crowd was present. No college kids, no creepy old dudes. Just a normal set of borderline alcoholics milling about.

Jen had to say, she thought she looked pretty damn good that night. A viable option for any interested parties at least. Black dress, black heels, meticulously crafted and twisted updo - the works. Nothing she’d ever wear in civilized company or back home in the rural south, but here, with her bleached hair and fake tan, she looked just like everyone else. They were all dressed pretty similarly - short dresses, tall heels, dangly earrings, and tiny handbags. Two of the women, Tammy and Kate, were already married (to each other). Mary Ann was as single as Jen and absolutely ready to put her wingwoman services into action for a mutually beneficial status.

Mary Ann marched up to the bar and returned with a beer for herself and a gin and tonic for Jen. "We usually come here on Thirsty Thursdays because the crowd is a little bit more respectable. If you're looking to get wild, we can walk over to Pitchers later. That's where the party starts on Thursdays."

Jen took a sip of her drink and found that it had been mixed pretty well. "No, this is perfect. I'm exhausted. I'm still adjusting to the time change and the culture shock."

"Oh, believe me," Tammy started, throwing back a shot that Kate had brought back from the bar for her. "You'll get a real hell of a culture shock if we take you to Pitchers. You like gay bars?"

Jen laughed. "I've been to my fair share."

"Well, you'll love it there. Those Southern bars can't touch ours out west."

"Believe me, I already like it better here," Jen said. And despite the struggle and the exhaustion of the past few days, she could truthfully say that she did. It was sunny and hot, but everyone seemed more relaxed (except Mary Ann). 

Mary Ann leaned forward across the table. She'd already finished most of her drink. "Enough about the places we aren't at right now. Let's talk about men and what you're looking for in a… financial benefactor."

Jen snorted, but she answered. "Someone… low maintenance. Late thirties or early forties. I like brunettes, but I won't complain about gray hair. In good shape, but a little thick."

"Good news, then," Kate said. Her eyes cut over Jen's left shoulder. "He's been staring at you since we sat down."

"Yeah, okay," Jen scoffed. She stopped laughing when her new drinking buddies didn't mirror the joke. "Wait, really? What's he look like?"

"Exactly what you said," Kate replied, surveying Jen's face in bemusement. "Late thirties, brunette, a little thick. And that's definitely a Ponsonby's suit, so either he went broke trying to look like he's got money, or he's really got money."

"Got a ring on?"

Mary Ann looked over Jen's shoulder, completely unabashed. "Looks like it."

Jen turned just enough to get a good look at him. Just like they said - brunette (though Jen could tell he was starting to go gray), late thirties, built like he probably played high-school football. Definitely wearing an expensive suit and a wedding band. He had a good face, strong and clean-shaven. He caught her looking and tipped his drink at her, smirking. 

Jen hummed. "Well, I'll be damned."

"Let's see if he sends a drink over," Kate said, looking over Jen's shoulder again. 

"Nah, he has to come over and introduce himself or it's no dice," Tammy said.

Mary Ann snorted. "No one does that anymore."

Kate cut them both off. "I wonder what he does for a living. Definitely not a lawyer - we all look the same, and he doesn’t look like us. Not a doctor either - his hands aren't built for it."

"Actor maybe?" Tammy asked, peering at him. "Or something in film."

"Probably not." Mary Ann motioned for the bartender to bring over another round for her. "Actors and models are a dime a dozen here. Maybe a higher-up."

"Look, he could be a bank robber for all I care," Jen said. She fished the lime out of her drink and popped it in her mouth, chewing gently on the pulpy sections. “As long as I don’t have to call him daddy, I’m good.”

"Well, none of us recognize him, so his record is probably clean. And he's not a cop unless he's FIB or Agency," Mary Ann said with some amount of finality. "Whatever he does, he makes a lot of money doing it."

“The longer you three keep staring, the more he’s going to think he gets to take all four of us home,” Jen said. She dropped the desiccated lime peel back into her empty glass and pushed it to the middle of the table. Any longer and she’d be eating the peel, which, being that she had been kindly included by these women she’d only just met, would be even weirder than chewing on the damn thing in the first place. Bad habits and all.

“Oh, no, honey. He’s only got eyes for you,” Mary Ann replied. “You gonna over there?”

Jen supposed she could make the first move. She was pretty forward, usually. Something told her to wait, though. A little bit of give and take, a little bit of a chase - might be pretty fun.

“Why don’t we just have a good time and see what happens, ladies?”

* * *

For the third week in a row, Jen saw the guy across the bar in his usual Thirsty Thursday spot at Tequi-la-la's. Jen had yet to see him get up and walk around, and he only ever spoke to the bartender. He simply enjoyed a couple drinks and left, presumably to head home or maybe go on to the next bar. He'd catch her eye occasionally, wink and tip his drink at her, then finish his drink and leave.

It was… frustrating.

Jen had finally accepted that maybe he was more faithful to his wife than his Thursday night hangout would suggest. Or any of his other hangouts would suggest. Jen had started going out with the ladies almost every night after work to their various rotation of bars. She'd seen him at both Talbots and Koozies already. It was the same situation every time - she'd catch him staring at her ass or her tits or whatever was the most visually available part of her. Yet, he'd just smirk and wink or tip his drink at her. Maybe she just wasn't his type - that was always a possibility. Either way, she was a little disappointed but not disheartened. Plenty more people to pick from here, there, everywhere, and at Pitchers.

Although she wasn't doing much picking. No picking at all, really. She hadn't bothered to take anyone home, didn't give out her number when asked for it. She could tell Mary Ann was tired of playing wingwoman to a woman who wasn't, well, winging it, but she just hadn't been interested in anyone who'd hit on her. They weren't quite what she was looking for; she didn't like the artist types or the actors and models or the businessmen, which left her choices limited. She'd grown up around blue-collar types, so that’s what she preferred.

It wasn't until Jen's fourth Thirsty Thursday out and about that she finally made some progress. It was just Jen and Kate that night (Tammy was stuck at work and Mary Ann had been vomiting profusely all week). Kate didn't stay long, either; she was afraid she'd caught whatever Mary Ann was dealing with, so she made short work of her drink, bid Jen goodbye, and left.

Jen fished the lime out of her drink and popped it in her mouth while she watched Fame or Shame on the TV above the bartender's head. Fuckin' Lazlow - what a dick. She'd met him once when she'd visited Liberty City in undergrad. He was pompous and creepy; he was pushing forty and had still hung around her group of friends at the bar they'd been at.

She'd barely finished her drink before the bartender slid another drink in front of her. She’d already decided to head home, so she tossed the spent lime peel into her first empty glass. "I'm done for tonight, Todd, but thanks."

"It's on the house," Todd replied. "The guy at the end of the bar sends his regards."

“What guy?” Jen asked, knowing full well what guy at the end of the bar was probably sending her a drink. She’d been eye-fucking him for weeks, and he’d definitely noticed. The whole fucking bar had noticed.

“The one who’s been staring at you all night,” Todd replied. “And every night you’ve been here at the same time.”

“Good.” Jen asked. She shifted so her elbows rested on top of the bar. “Any idea who he is?”

“Name’s Michael de Santa - he’s here a lot. No idea what he does, but he swipes that credit card and doesn’t even look at the bill.” Todd leaned against the bar, glancing down at the end where Michael sat. “He doesn’t usually buy women drinks. At least, he’s never done it on my shift.”

“Well, aren’t I just special, then?” Jen snorted. “Yeah, he’s usually in here when I’m here. He’s very… attractive.”

“Why haven’t you just talked to him?”

“It’s all about the chase, my dude,” Jen said, winking. She took a healthy swig of the drink he’d handed her and popped the lime wedge into her mouth. Drink in hand, she strolled over to the end of the bar.

It became very apparent, very quickly that Michael de Santa was an entirely different class of man. Even from the other side of the bar, he looked good. As she drew closer and he was brought into sharper focus, Jen realized he not only looked good, he looked expensive. Slick coif; clean-shaven; crisp suit, perfectly pressed, laundered, and professional. There wasn’t much that could strike her speechless, but he seemed to have figured out how to do without much effort.

Jen sidled up next to him and tipped her drink in his direction. “Gin and tonic - good choice.”

Michael turned to face her, giving her a clean once-over before he even opened his mouth. Yeah, he looked even better up close. Broad-shouldered, dark-haired, a little on the thick side. The cologne he wore was subtle and warm, like cinnamon and cloves. She could smell cigar smoke and whiskey on him, and she liked that just fine.

He grinned. “It’s the only thing I’ve seen you drink. Figured it was a pretty safe bet.”

“So, you were paying attention,” Jen replied. She motioned towards the empty seat next to him. “You expecting anybody?”

“Only you, gorgeous,” he said, patting the seat next to him. “Have a seat.”

Jen smirked and took a seat next to him. If this was gonna be a one-night stand - and she was definitely taking him home - it was gonna be a good one. If this was going to be something a little more long-term, it was gonna be fun.

Jen took a slow sip of her drink, draining the rest of the glass. His dark eyes followed her tongue as she licked a stray droplet of liquid from the rim. “Got a name, handsome?”

“Michael,” he said simply. “What about you, sweetheart?”

“Jennifer,” she said. She held out her hand for him to take. “You can call me Jen.”

Michael smirked. “You’re not a ‘Jenny’ then?”

Jen forced a smile. “Oh, no, darlin’. Just Jen.”

Michael nodded. He didn’t mention it, but he saw the smile lines around her eyes smooth out when he said ‘Jenny.’ Best not to ask if he wanted the night to go as planned. “Just Jen, then. What do you do with your time, Just Jen?”

She leaned in, the smell of his cologne making her head swim. “I’m a lawyer by day, and I come here to see you at night.”

“Oh, you’re coming here to see me?” Michael mirrored her stance and leaned in. “Well, I’d have said something earlier if I’d known.”

She reached out to pluck at his tie, straightening it at the collar. “Now, where’s the fun in that?”

“It’s all about the chase for you, huh?”

“All about the chase, Michael.”

He liked the way she said his name, soft and slow. She had a little bit of an accent - not thick enough to be a full-on drawl but there was enough of a lilt to count as an accent. “What makes you wanna chase me?”

Jen shrugged. “You look like a man worth chasing.”

Now, that made him smile. He knew better than that. He was a bad guy - had been a bad guy - but she didn’t know that. Best not to let her find out before the night was over.

Michael finished off his beer and set the empty bottle back on the table. “So what do you do for fun, Just Jen? Other than hang out bars and stare at old men like me.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re not old.”

“I’m 38.”

“And I’m 25.”

“That’s a little bit of a gap.”

Jen slid in closer to him. “Does that bother you?”

“Not at all,” he replied.

Jen always got particularly annoyed at public displays of affection in bars, but right now, she could certainly see the appeal. She was close enough to him that she could easily close the gap between them and kiss him. By the dark look in his eyes, she guessed Michael wouldn’t have cared if the entire city of Los Santos was watching.

“You know, I actually don’t know anything to do around here except hang out at the bars and shop,” Jen admitted, shifting in her seat. “I’ve only been out here about a month.”

“What brought you out here?” Michael asked. “I can hear the accent - sounds like you’re from down south.”

“I needed a change of scenery. Not much keeping me around back home,” Jen replied. “What about you? I heard that little midwestern clip.”

“I, uh - needed a lifestyle change,” Michael replied. "Little too cold in North Yankton for me."

“Snow’s not really my scene, either.” Jen cocked her head. “Hey, you wanna go play pool? There’s a pool hall down the street.”

“Talkin’ about Chico’s?”

“Yeah. It’s been a long time since I’ve played. You look like you know how.”

Michael raised his eyebrows, but he nodded all the same. “I’m in.”

* * *

"You a gamblin’ man?" Jen asked, twisting the chalk cube on the top of the pool cue. She'd picked the table near the back corner next to the bar and racked up the pool balls. 

Michael took the chalk cube when she offered it to him. "Every now and then. What've you got in mind?"

"Loser buys the next round?" Jen asked.

"You're on, sweetheart."

Michael won the first round, pocketing stripes with clean precision. He was good - Jen figured he would be. He didn’t let her win, and she liked that.

“Good game,” she said, winking at him. “You rack up, I’ll go get us another round?”

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

Jen returned with two drinks - another gin and tonic for herself, whiskey for him. She’d had to guess what his brand was, but he seemed pleased by her choice when he took a drink. 

“How about we make this round interesting?” Jen asked. She leaned against the pool table and picked up her cue, twisting the chalk cube on the end of it. She dusked the blue chalk off her hands and picked up her drink.

Michael settled against the pool table and took the chalk cube from her. He held the pool cue between his knees and scrubbed the cube on the tip of the cue. His shoulder was pressed so close she could smell the cinnamon in his cologne. “How so?”

“Loser pays for the cab,” Jen said. She reached out to dusk a few flakes of blue chalk off of his jacket. The dark fabric was soft, luxe, as she smoothed it out. He hummed when she paused, inviting her to tell him the other part of her proposal. “Winner takes the loser home.”

“You don’t play around, do you?” Michael chuckled. He ducked in close to her ear, voice dropping low. “I’ll take that bet. That is - unless you want to head out now?”

Jen turned so that her cheek was pressed to his ear. “It’s all about the chase, Michael. You can break.”

Had Jen not (correctly) inferred that Michael was the competitive type, she would have bet he threw the second game just to get them out of the bar faster. She couldn’t say whether that would have been a losing bet. He certainly didn’t mind swiping his credit card or forking over whatever cash he had on hand - paying for a cab wouldn’t inconvenience him in the slightest. He had a prideful streak, though. Most likely, she caught him off guard by winning.

Once she sank the 8-ball, she grabbed her drink and threw down the last of it.

Michael snorted. “You little hustler - you threw the first game.”

“Oh, no, you won that game fair and square,” Jen lied. Best to let him preserve his ego. “I can close out the tab while you get us the cab?”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Both are already taken care of,” Michael said. Ah, a man who liked to throw his money around. Jen wasn't complaining about that - not this time.

“Someone’s eager.”

“Like you said - it’s all about the chase.”

* * *

They made it to Jen's apartment just fine. A twenty minute easy conversation in the back of the cab punctuated by the most overt flirting that had ever left Jen’s mouth, Michael's arm around her and her hand on his thigh. It was once they got there that they ran into a problem - problem being that they didn't quite make it all the way to her room.

Jen led him up the steps to her door. Michael's hand rested on the small of her back as they walked up the flight of stairs, almost as if he meant to keep her steady. Her hands shook as she fished her keys out of her bag, which he obviously noticed. 

He ducked down and pressed his lips to her ear, voice vibrating deep in his throat. "Nervous?"

"Not at all." Jen unlocked the door and pushed it open. She shut it behind her with her hip, turned to him, and wound her fist into his tie. "I really like this tie."

"It'll look better on the floor.”

“Oh, I agree,” Jen said. Michael rested his hands on her hips, making her shiver. “But I like that I can do this.”

She yanked on his tie and pulled him down into a hard kiss. He grunted from the sudden force, but he melted against her once he adjusted. He grabbed her hips and all but hauled her up against him. The taste of gin and lime, soft and warm and somehow altogether still sharp, could have burned him in the heat of her mouth on his. The scent of his cologne mingled with the taste of whiskey and cigars, making her head swim. 

She pressed herself against him and backed him up against the wall. His suit jacket was tossed unceremoniously to the floor as she guided him backwards. They'd hardly walked five steps into her apartment and she'd already climbed him like a tree - he liked being the dominant one, but he certainly didn't hate this. 

“You really don’t waste time, do you?” Michael asked, breathless. He wrapped an arm around her waist, keeping her flush against his chest; his other hand tangled in her hair.

“I can be a little impatient,” Jen shrugged. She slid her palm down the front of his pants, gently thumbing his length through the fabric. He jerked at her touch and made a strangled noise at the back of his throat as if he wasn't expecting her touch. She couldn't imagine why - she'd jumped him about as soon as they walked in.

He recovered quickly and tried to play it off. "Impatient for me, huh?"

“Well, you did wait to talk to me for a month,” Jen teased. She toyed with the buckle of his belt, sliding the strip of leather out of its fastening. It hit the floor with a soft thud. “I can go slow, if you want.”

“Oh, no, honey. Slow ain’t my style.”

“Good,” she replied. “It’s not mine, either.”

Jen took his face in her hands and kissed him, her hands sliding around to card through his dark hair. She kissed the edge of his mouth, his cheek, down the clean-shaven line of his jaw until she found the place that made him tip his head to the side and sigh, all while unzipping his pants and sliding her hand into his boxers. He was thick and solid, hot under her touch; when she ran her fingers up his length, he jerked again like he wasn't used to it. Come to think of it, if he was wearing a wedding band and still chose to come home with her, maybe he _wasn’t_ used to it.

If that was the case, Michael would definitely be coming back after she was done.

Jen dropped to her knees, grinning up at him like she was unwrapping a present. His blue eyes were dark, blown wide so that she could just barely see the blue. He gripped her hair, mouth slightly ajar; his tongue ran along his bottom lip as if tasting what was left of where she kissed him.

“Get this off.” She plucked at his shirt, which was still almost completely buttoned. The bottom hung taut over his hips, draping over the front of his boxers. “It’s in my way.”

Shaking fingers pulled at each button, though he could barely push each one through the hole. She didn’t think he could move that fast; he nearly tore the buttons off his shirt trying to get it off and out of her way. He finally got the damn thing off and tore his undershirt over his head to go along with it, throwing them pretty much across the room. In hindsight, he’d probably have gotten done quicker if Jen hadn’t tugged his boxers down about halfway through and wrapped her lips around the tip of his cock.

His cock hung heavy and flushed red, pants around his knees; she took the base gently in one hand and held his hip to keep herself steady with the other. His hands found her hair again, this time keeping her steady while she sucked him off. She took him down as far as she could, bobbing her head while his fingers carded through her hair.

“ _Fuck_ \- I take it back, you might have to go slow,” Michael groaned, hips canting up to meet her with every stroke. She stared up from between his knees, eyes glittering as she ran her tongue up the underside of his length and fisted the base of his cock. “What, mouth too full to catch an attitude?” 

Jen cocked her head and smiled around him before twisting her wrist and picking up speed. He choked out her name and pulled her hair - the closest thing to a warning he could give her. The burning sensation creeping down from his stomach to his balls threatened to spill over, and, unwilling to get her to stop, he made the choice to look up at the ceiling instead of staring down at her. Except he knew that if she kept going, this was about as far as they’d get tonight - and he hadn’t even gotten her out of her dress yet.

“Alright, alright, you made your - _fuck_ \- point,” he said, shuddering. He slid his hand up under her chin and tapped her cheek gently. “You’re fucking _killing me_ \- stand up.”

Jen acquiesced and stood up, running her hands up his bare chest to squeeze his broad shoulders. “What, couldn’t take it anymore?”

“You’ve got quite a mouth on you, princess.”

“Should have let me finish you, then.”

Michael pulled her in close, stroking her bottom lip with his thumb. His rough voice was dark enough to match his eyes. “Nah, I’m not done with you yet.”

He slid his hands up her sides and around to her back, taking time to map out every contour he could reach. He pressed his mouth to her collarbone, leaving a wet trail of kisses up to her cheek. The zipper on the back of her dress rested at the nape of her neck; without breaking contact, he reached up around her and tugged it down. The material pooled at her shoulders and drooped down her arms, exposing black bra straps. He moved one strap out of the way, then the other, mouth leaving a bruise on her shoulder in his wake.

She reached behind her back and unclasped her bra, letting it fall to the floor with her black dress. Two silver rings glinted in the half-light, one through each nipple. His hands moved up to cup her breasts, his thumbs brushing her nipples. He pushed the little silver rings from one side to the other, rolling his fingers around them. She shivered and bit his bottom lip, tugging the shorts hairs at the base of his scalp. He pulled her in close so that he could feel every inch of her against him and kissed her again, tongue swiping against her bottom lip.

Michael reluctantly broke away and took a deep breath. “As much as I’d like to fuck you up against this wall…”

“Down the hall, to the left.”

Jen all but pulled him down the hallway behind her. Michael sat down on the edge of her bed and yanked her close to him. He took one nipple in his mouth, rolling it around his tongue. She whimpered in the back of her throat - the first sound he’d heard her make. He moved to the other nipple, biting down gently while he ran his thumb up the line of her underwear. She didn’t wait for him to pull her underwear down; she dropped them herself and straddled his thighs. 

He grabbed her hips as she straddled him, pulling her down onto his lap. She shifted in his lap, grinding down on him - not enough to give him any satisfaction, just enough to tease him. His hands slid down her thighs, keeping her in place.

“Sit still,” he ordered, thumb pressing soft circles against her clit. He was pleased to find she was slick enough to coat his fingers. The soft groan of his name as he slid one finger, then another, into her set a shiver down his spine. He could practically smell how bad she wanted him; his cock ached and twitched every time she moved or made even the softest sound. 

Jen pushed on his chest until he rested back on his elbows. His fingers were good, but she was too impatient to wait any longer. She took the base of his cock in hand, positioning herself over him. She ran the head of his cock against her clit, slicking him up.

“Hold on - condom?” Michael asked, almost as an afterthought. He rarely ever forgot to ask (after two kids, he’d learned his lesson), but she had him so worked up, the thought hadn’t crossed his mind.

“Birth control, darlin’.”

Michael also rarely believed when someone told him that (again, he’d learned his lesson). But this girl - this girl, he was inclined to believe. “Works for me, then.”

Jen sank down on him with a hiss and rocked up against him. He wrapped an arm around her back to keep her steady, his other hand gripping the back of her neck. Her breasts pressed up against his chest, soft and pliable. Her nipples prickled against him, the tiny silver rings cold against his skin. She’d set a punishing pace, grinding down on him, so slick and hot that it nearly drove him nuts. 

Michael grabbed her ass, almost lifting her up out of his lap and pulling her back down. He pressed his face into the juncture between her neck and collarbone, groaning her name like she was the only thing keeping him alive. He’d already been close before she sank down on him; he was doing everything in his power to stay in control. He worked her clit, driving her along to her own edge.

He came with a rough groan, lifting her up off of him so that he came on her thigh. He kept drawing those soft, tight circles into her clit until she came with a whimper, rutting down against his thigh.

Jen sat in his lap for a minute to collect herself. She kissed his cheek before climbing out of his lap and heading into the bathroom to clean up. The sink ran warm, and wiped herself down before throwing a fresh towel to him. 

Michael almost didn’t want to get up. He almost didn’t bother, content to sit here on Jen’s bed until tomorrow morning. But it was late, and he knew he couldn’t stay. “Guess I better go find my pants.”

“They look better on the floor.”

He laughed - possibly the first time he’d really laughed in weeks. “If you say so.”

Jen followed him to the door without bothering to get dressed. It was hard to see her like that without wanting to stay; give him another hour and he might have been able to go another round. For her, with her wide hips and heavy breasts and _those fucking piercings_ , he could definitely get it up again.

She grabbed his undershirt off the floor and tugged it over her head. It smelled like cigar smoke and cologne - very _him_. “Hope you won’t miss this.”

Once he’d gotten completely dressed, he pulled out his phone and dialed for a cab. He grinned. “All yours. Looks better on you than it does on me anyway.”

“Give me your phone for a second.” Jen held out her hand. Michael handed it to her without protest and watched her put her number in. She handed it back and reached up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Just in case you get tired of hanging around bars.”

Michael headed down to the cab, knowing Amanda certainly hadn’t waited up for him. He’d had his fair share of booty calls in his day - he rarely bothered to get a phone number out of it. He usually couldn’t remember even going home with someone, or liking anyone he went home with. But Jen - Jen, he liked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always make good on my promises of smut.


	4. Main Mission // The Vangelico Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Payback is a bitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short note unrelated to this chapter: the game takes place over the course of three months. This is going to be stretched out longer than that.

They did it. The whole store - boosted and delivered, just as planned. No casualties, no mistakes. Michael still had it - the best in the business. Now, all he had to do was wait for Lester to turn the diamonds over, wire him the money, and pay off the mob boss threatening his life. He’d be done, then. He’d get Amanda off his back, get Tracey in college and Jimmy straightened out, show Franklin the ropes. He’d buy Jen something nice with the leftover cash.

He pulled out his phone and dialed her number. The phone rang twice before she picked up. “Hey, baby.”

“Are you okay?”

Jen’s voice sounded strained, though she was obviously trying to keep it even.

Michael grinned. “Never better.”

“Good, good,” she replied. She sounded relieved, but the strain didn’t leave her voice. “I’ve been watching the news for updates.”

“It’s gonna blow up once Weazel gets there,” Michael said. He adjusted the phone as a cop blew by him, lights on. Not coming for him, probably responding to the Vangelico call. “Listen, Jen, thank you.”

“Happy to do it, darlin’.”

“I’ll get Lester to call you with the full update.” Michael moved over to the shoulder of the road as another couple of cop cars blew past him. “We still on for Friday?”

“That new mobster movie and dinner?”

“You got it, baby," he replied as he watched the flashing lights disappear in the distance. "It's gonna be a celebration to remember."

"I'll hold you to it." Jen sighed, a tiny sound that Michael just barely picked up on. "Keep your head down, okay?"

Jen would never tell him she was worried, but Michael knew her well enough to know she was - about the job they pulled, about what she'd agreed to do, about the fallout she was going to face, about _him_. She could keep a cool head ninety-nine percent of the time, but when she got wound up, she let that little bit of that simmering temper shine through. It was something Michael had always liked about her; she was unshakably collected when she needed to be, but underneath that shell, she cared.

"Don't you worry 'bout me, sweetheart. I played this game for a long time."

"Be safe, Mike."

Michael hung up and slotted his phone into the groove above the radio. They'd gotten away with it almost totally clean. No fingerprints, no hairs, no telltale pattern. He'd been off the grid long enough that he wouldn't be an immediate suspect, especially not out here in Los Santos. Maybe back in the Midwest, but not out here. It was easy going from here.

* * *

Jen woke up to excruciating pain in her jaw and the taste of blood in the back of her throat. Groaning, she swiped blindly at her face and scratched the fine crust of dried blood that coated her bottom lip. Her immediate thought was to spit all the blood out, which would be super gross to do in her nice, clean bed. Bathroom, then. 

The throbbing pain in her mouth had woken her up well before her alarm, nearly two hours before her day was scheduled to start. There was plenty of time to knock out for a couple more hours, but she'd never get back to sleep with a stinging hole in her cheek. She stumbled out of her warm bed to the freezing bathroom, fumbling around in the dark for the light switch. The light blinded her at soon as she turned it on, so she groped around for a cup in the medicine cabinet having no idea where her hands really even were. She'd lost her mouth-guard weeks earlier and as of yet had not remembered to replace it, hence the bleeding divot in her mouth. After a few seconds, she extracted something she hoped was clean, filled it full of water, swished and spit into the sink. How fucking disgusting, watching all that blood go down the drain. Served her right, she guessed, for neglecting her personal health.

This wasn't the first time she'd woken up with a mouth full of blood after biting the inside of her cheek. This had been a persistent problem since she was a kid; every time she got stressed, she started grinding her teeth and chewing. She'd woken up like this so many times back in college she'd had to pilfer her old roommate's Norco on more than one occasion to make it through class. She rubbed the already bruise-like circles around her eyes and shoved the mass of tangled orange curls out of her eyes. Her face was already starting to swell, and she'd had enough trouble going to sleep anyway. Might as well shower and grab coffee. She'd go into the office early and monitor the news while she worked, just in case some nosy reporter had found something too close to home.

Jen stepped into the shower while it was still cold, wincing through the discomfort. Anything to derail that particular train of thought. She scrubbed down and rinsed off, wet curls falling down in her face. She'd let her hair grow out from the pin-straight bleach blonde years ago, and the orange curls had come back with a vengeance. In the dim bathroom light blocked out by the frosted shower curtain, out of the corner of her eye, the orange curls ran closer to red.

The Vangelico thing had her blood pressure up. She'd never admit to Michael that it made her nervous, of course, but it did. She'd done her best to get the heat out of Los Santos for a couple of days, but the response had been serious as soon as the store alarm went off. Her bread and butter specialty had always been planning and strategy, but there was no way to plan for everything. She'd written the warrants and orders for everything with enough specificity to keep investigators on a leash, but that didn't mean they wouldn't find something of their own accord. 

Once she got dressed, she grabbed her thermos of coffee and headed to the office. She drove in silence with the window down, letting the early morning Los Santos breeze clear her head. She'd tried to listen to the radio like she did every morning, but the music sounded like little more than static and waffle to her occupied brain.

Jen had been locked in her office for two hours by the time everyone else in the office started showing up. By then, most of her morning workload was done, and she was well into putting a dent in the afternoon's agenda. She refreshed Weazel News' feed every fifteen minutes or so, taking account of every article and video with **_Vangelico_** flashing across the top. Not a damn one said anything new or groundbreaking since yesterday, but at least the interns at Weazel News had something to do the past couple of days, copy-and-pasting the same tired words over and over into every article. The videos kept repeating the same feed of Michael's 80's movie wet dream line spoken by the random guard. But there'd be something new eventually, and she'd make sure it got squashed down.

Finally, just when Jen's eyes started twitching, there came a knock on her office door. Jen didn't know what she was expecting since she was in charge and people regularly knocked on her door, but she jumped all the same. Thankfully, it was just Mary Ann bringing the gift of breakfast. She'd graciously brought Jen an extra coffee to the office (bless her soul, Mary Ann didn’t need coffee). She never failed to remember Jen’s order, simple as it was. Black, two sugars. Cheap, easy to remember. In her usual abrasive manner, she deposited the coffee on Jen’s desk and parked it on her couch.

Mary Ann hooked one ankle behind the other and sipped her blistering-hot coffee through the pain. “Why’s your face all puffy? Have you been grinding your teeth again?” 

Jen had, up to that point, been staring diligently at her computer screen for all the good it did, aware but indifferent to Mary Ann’s presence in her office. “What, no good morning?" 

"Bean Machine wrote it on your coffee cup. Does your face hurt?"

Jen worked her jaw and winced. "Yeah.”

“What did he do this time?”

“What did who do?”

Mary Ann sighed. “Your old-man boyfriend, Jen? Tall, dark, and married? Vaguely shady?”

“He’s not old,” Jen snapped. Eh, well, he wasn’t young either, but Jen preferred that anyway. “And no, nothing to do with him. He doesn’t make me grind my teeth. Wait, what do you mean, _this time_?”

Mary Ann rolled her eyes. “Nevermind. You know, I told you I left those muscle relaxers at your apartment for times like these. Your face is swelled up like a balloon.”

“Why, thank you for your concern this morning, Mary Ann,” Jen shook her head. Mary Ann had been going through another one of her phases, probably because she’d dislocated her ankle and hadn’t been able to run for the past two weeks. She got a little testy when she couldn’t get the aggression out. “It’s the Blaine County thing. FIB’s been crawling my ass, and the IAA’s been sniffing around again.”

“Yeah, that’s why I stopped by your office. There’s two IAA agents in the front lobby.”

“Shit, really?” Jen huffed. “I don’t fucking have time for this today. Which ones?”

“Glasses and Skinny.”

“ _Names_ , Mary Ann.”

“They all look the same to me! John and Karen, I think.”

“Fan- _fuckin_ ’-tastic.” She didn’t know much about the multitude of IAA agents who sneaked around the office, but she did know those two weren’t just average interns. “Did you happen to catch why they’re here?”

“Yeah, they’re going through your files. Mary let them in.”

“Of course she did.”

The front desk office housed the older files as they were routinely rotated out. Most of the files were more than seven years old, which was longer than she’d even been a lawyer and certainly longer than she’d been in office. It was likely that the IAA was looking for a good place to plant something, or at the very least, looking for something out of place in her files they could attribute to her. But, if the FIB insisted on getting in her business, it could at least do its job and keep the IAA out of it.

“You gonna do anything about it?”

Jen shook her head. “What can I do? They’re just posturing, anyway. I’ll pester Haines and Norton about it when they inevitably show up to bother me.”

Lunch came and went with still nothing new about the Vangelico job from Weazel News or Michael. On one hand, as long as she didn’t see **_ARRESTS MADE IN VANGELICO ROBBERY_** flashing across any headlines, she could at least breathe. On the other hand, it was disconcerting that the situation hadn't developed any further. There was _always_ at least one nosy journalist who'd latch on to an interesting bit of information, but it seemed like they'd found nothing at all. She had to hand it to Michael: he really knew what he was doing. 

Jen had long since finished all her work for the day by the time her phone rang. It was Mary on the line, for what seemed like the thousandth time that day. Between the Vangelico's robbery and the Blaine County investigations, she hadn't been able to leave her desk the entire day.

"Hey, Jen - Miss Dixon?"

Mary's voice rang out over the phone, tinny and scratchy from the ancient lo-fi technology. Jen held the phone away from her ear. "What's up, Mary?"

"Got a couple of FIB agents here to see you."

Right, of course. Dave and Haines must have finally decided finish their coffee and show up. The FIB couldn't have the Agency trying to pin their show pony (her) with election fraud. Blaine County was one thing, but Vangelico added a whole other annoyance on top of everything. Combined with the IAA getting more brazen about showing up at the office and sniffing around, Jen had a feeling they'd be making a special trip. 

"I don't have time to deal with them today. I’m prepping their Blaine County reports," Jen replied. "Tell them to come back tomorrow."

Jen heard yammering in the background, tinny through the cheap phone speakers. Mary's harried voice cut through the chatter. "Agent Haines is ordering me to let him in."

"Agent Haines can suck my dick. This is _my_ office."

"He says you have some information for him."

"Not right now, I don’t. I just _said_ I’m still working on the Blaine County stuff," Jen huffed. She could hear yelling again and figured she should at least spare poor Mary from dealing with Haines and Norton. "Look, just send them back - the sooner Haines gets finished yelling, the sooner he'll leave."

"Yes, ma'am," Mary replied. Jen didn't have the patience to tell her not to call her _ma'am_.

Jen heard the lock click down the hall, signaling the imminent arrival of her babysitters. Bless Mary Ann for that second coffee earlier.

Haines burst through the doorway, athleisure polo and dad slacks en full force, and parked himself down on her office couch. He’d obviously just gotten off the set of his show, as he hadn’t bothered to wipe off the excess concealer under his eyes or the powder on his chin. Norton filed in behind him with much less bluster and far more exasperation, as per usual. 

"Jenny, Jenny, _Jenny_ ," Haines said, stretching his arms behind his head. "Boy, do we have some questions for you!"

"Agent Haines," Jen deadpanned. A vein pulsed in her jaw. She had to forcibly remind herself not to start grinding her teeth; the swelling had barely subsided from that morning. "As usual, I am always happy to assist you with topics outside of your jurisdiction." She nodded towards Norton. "Dave. Pleasure as always."

Dave sat down, examining her face forlornly. "I'd like to return the sentiment today, Jen, but we really do have questions for you."

Jen knew it was for the Vangelico job, but it was better to just play dumb. She had no idea what they knew, or if they knew anything at all. Of course, since the pair of them were sitting in her office, they'd either made a good guess or found something incriminating. She hoped it was the former.

"Look, if this is about the Blaine County thing, I sent guys out yesterday to check out the new Lost chapter and I'm going up there myself next week."

“We're not talking about the Lost. Most of the chapter is dead now anyway, as you well know.” Haines leaned forward. "We wanna know about your little boyfriend."

"What are you asking me, Haines?"

He slammed his hands down on the desk. "You know damn well what I'm asking."

Jen brushed his hands away from her desk. "First, don’t come in _my_ office and interrogate me. Second, if you'll clarify what you’re asking for, I _might_ be able to help you gentlemen."

Dave took that moment to intervene, as he could foresee this going nowhere without his direction. "We need to know if Michael pulled that job at Vangelico's."

"Look, guys, I know his history," Jen said. The vein in her jaw pulsed again. "But he's forty-five years old and I have to wrestle the Cluckin' Bell out of his hands sometimes. He hasn't pulled a job since North Yankton and he's in no shape to pull one now."

"Be that as it may," Dave said, "it fits his M.O. to the letter. If you know anything, we need to know."

Jen shrugged. "Sorry, boys. I can't help you."

Haines frowned. "Nah, you know _something_. You know everything."

"Well, if I know everything, but I don't know anything about this, then I obviously can't help you."

"If you don't tell us, someone will."

"I literally just got it out of my mouth, Haines. It's not him."

"Fine. If you don't think it's him, you either really don't know anything or you're hiding something. We'll leave if you won't tell us," Haines stood up, though he didn't make a move towards the door. Always with the dramatics. The pleats in his slacks had straightened while he'd been sitting. "But if we find out you knew about this, you're going down with him. "

"Good thing it wasn't Mike, then."

Haines took a half-step towards her office door. "And we want the briefs from the Lost investigation as soon as you're finished with them."

Jen waved. "Yeah, yeah, I'll send them on as soon as I'm done."

This was Haines' usual dramatic routine - bad-cop, then he'd transfer over to shop talk. Oh, sure, he'd be friendly for thirty seconds, then he'd go right back to being bad-cop. He asked, almost delicately, “Any idea what you’re charging them with yet? I’m sure you’ve got quite the list.”

Jen kept a list of all the potential charges, but it would take her twenty minutes to read them all off. Haines was only asking to look like the good-cop anyway. And what _hadn't_ the Lost done? There was shit piling up from way before Los Santos and Blaine County, even before Liberty City. Most of it was shit that she wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole. Her responsibility wasn't to deal with that, though. She just had to get everything from Los Santos and Blaine County straight and turn it over.

“I do, but I will likely be handing it over to the federal prosecutors anyway,” Jen said. “They want the glory and I’ll be more than happy to let them have it.”

"All this work for someone else to take the credit? Too much for you to handle?"

"Yeah, it is," Jen said. "Especially with all the budget cuts. Can't take down a gang of murderous, methed-up bikers with no money. Not that I guess we’ll be taking them down anyway since most of them are dead."

"Give us your boyfriend and I'll make sure your funding gets tripled."

Jen sighed. "That would be an attractive offer if I had anything to give you."

Yeah, right. Jen had a stake in the game now, and there was no way she was going to lose it. She didn't want Michael in trouble either. She intended to keep him around for a while.

"Give it a rest, Steve," Dave snapped. Bless him, he'd always been the sensible one of the pair. "She knows the routines. You're not gonna get anything out of her by being the bad cop, if there's even anything to get."

Jen grinned. "I'd listen to Dave on this one if I were you, Agent Haines."

Haines finally threw open her office door, signaling his imminent departure from the building. He turned around and pointed his finger at her. "We're not done here."

"So you say."

Haines threw his hands up and left her office. 

Dave turned back to her as he shuffled out behind Haines. “Stay out of trouble, Jen. Michael de Santa is not worth it.”

“I’ve read his file too, Dave.”

“That may be, but you have a bad habit of not listening.”

"Look, if he's got anything to do with the jewelry store, then he did a damn good job of keeping it from me."

"I don't know if you're trying to cover his ass or just your own, but I don't believe for a second you don’t know anything about this."

* * *

Michael loved when Jen wore that dress. It was black, soft and shimmery and just short enough that it rode up to show the muscles lining her thigh whenever she walked. The neckline was high, which he liked; call him old-fashioned, but he was a visual guy and he liked that it left just enough to the imagination. Every curve, every muscle, every soft line; he could run his hands along her sides and feel every inch of her through that dress. 

She’d swept the tangle of orange curls back into a high bun, leaving a couple of loose coils hanging at the sides. She used to let him run his fingers through her hair, or pull it, back when it was bleached blonde and pin-straight. Not so much now that it was nigh unmanageable, but he didn’t mind. It was long and wild and made her look undone. She always pulled her hair up when she gave him head, so it hit him where it hurts every time she went out with her hair up.

“What are you staring at?”

Jen kicked her heels off into the corner, out of sight and out of mind for the night. They’d just walked into her apartment, still smelling of popcorn from the movie theater and wine from dinner. Michael turned on one of the old movies he liked as he always did while Jen grabbed a couple of drinks from her refrigerator. He wasn’t paying attention anyway; he’d seen the movie a thousand times.

Jen handed him his drink and sat down next to him, folding herself against his side. “Hello? Did you hear me? What are you staring at, Mike?”

“You. What else would I be staring at?”

“The movie, maybe?”

Jen’s fingers trailed up the back of his neck and up through his hair. He leaned forward, sighing, hair standing on end. _Fuck_ , he could go to sleep, just like that. Could die happy, right there, with her fingers in his hair and the goosebumps crawling up his arms and the short hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

“Eh, I’ve seen it.”

He snapped out of his trance when she unbuttoned the top couple of buttons on his shirt with her free hand. Without stopping her movements at the back of his neck, she carded through his chest hair, all along his collarbones, then right back down to pick at the next couple of buttons. She’d just started toying with the button right above his stomach when he finally pulled himself together.

He shook his head like he had water in his ears. “Whoa, whoa - hold on!”

Jen stopped rubbing the back of his neck, and he immediately wished he’d just kept his trap shut. “What?”

“Lay back for me,” Michael said. He extricated himself from her grip and nudged her shoulders back. She raised her eyebrows and didn’t budge, instead choosing to halfway fiddle with the same button on his shirt. Michael rolled his eyes. “I know you don’t like being told what to do. Just let me do something for ya.”

Jen acquiesced with a simmering glare and scooched back until her shoulders hit the armrest. She wrapped her legs around Michael’s waist as he loomed over her, the unbuttoned half of his shirt hanging off of him. His hands slid up her thighs, bunching the hem of her dress up under her chest. 

Jen watched him from underneath thick black eyelashes, sharp enough to qualify as very nearly calculating. That was the look she always gave whenever he fell into his usual mouthy routine. He loved that look, like she was challenging him - _daring_ him, even - to make good on his word. He loved to wipe that look off her face, and she damn well knew it.

“What’s gotten into you?” Jen lifted her hips so he could peel her underwear down. He wasted no time pressing his thumb to her clit and circling gently, her legs squeezing his waist a little tighter. “A neck rub usually has you down and out pretty quick.”

His lips attached to her neck, running from her jawline down to her collarbone. Foreplay with Michael was straight magic, even if he didn’t like to do it. She chalked it up to poor impulse control and the inability to wait, but he knew what she liked. That was fine with her, though - too much stimulation made her twitchy. 

“Told you it’d be a celebration to remember, didn’t I?”

He hooked her knees over his shoulders, hand splayed across her stomach to keep her hips down. The hand still thumbing her clit dropped down to her entrance, one finger tracing the line of her entrance.

She bit her lip, the tip of her tongue just barely poking out from between her teeth. “You did.”

Michael slipped his index finger in, then his middle finger, pumping gently. Her thighs tensed around his shoulders, the muscles in her stomach tightening, but he held her still. He dropped down to match the cadence of his fingers with his tongue, hot and thick against her clit. Her hand tangled in his hair, keeping his head in place without forcing him down. Her other hand clutched at the hem of her dress, keeping it out of his way.

His back screamed in protest from being hunched over for so long, but he didn’t stop the smooth, slow circle of his thumb circling and pressing down on her clit, his fingers thrusting in and out, his tongue following in a wet line. It was fucking impossible to get her to make a noise, but he’d done a damn good job so far of getting her to call his name. He really should do this more often - get her to let go a little bit; the way she called his name, tensed under him like she was fighting to stop herself from jumping on him, was the biggest fuckin’ ego boost he’d had in a long time.

Just when the pressure against his zipper was almost too much to keep ignoring, she yanked on his hair. It was her version of a warning - _stop or this is as far as you get_. He crawled up so that his hands were on either side of her head and claimed her mouth so that she could taste herself on his lips. Her legs wrapped around his waist, dragging him down against her. He really needed to learn to be patient - if he’d gotten them both undressed before he started, he wouldn’t have to stop now.

Jen grabbed at his belt. “Off. Get these off now.”

Michael grabbed her wrist and held it over her head. She all but growled at him, a red flush creeping up her shoulders and neck. “You can wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“For me to get this fuckin’ dress off of you.”

“ _Michael_.”

He sat back on his knees and hauled her up into some kind of half-cocked sitting position. “You’re not gonna die in the next two minutes. Where’s the zipper on this thing?”

“Just help me get it over my head.”

“ _Jen_.”

“Fine,” she huffed, twisting around as best she could. He yanked the zipper down and wriggled the material up over her head.

She moved to grab at his belt again, but he caught her wrist again and held it against the back of the couch. “Relax.”

“You nearly killed me giving me head and now you want me to wait?”

“I’m gonna fuck you,” Michael said, letting go of her wrist momentarily to yank his shirt over his head. “Just sit back and relax for a second.”

To his surprise, she didn’t sass him. Instead, she leaned back against the armrest and folded her arms behind her head. Now, that made him stop - the perfect, unobstructed view of her heavy breasts, piercings glinting in the half-light. She cocked her head and grinned before nudging him with her knee. 

“I give you head and you give me sass,” he huffed, scrambling for his belt.

“If you’d let me do it, you’d be getting your dick wet right now.”

“Who’re you talkin’ to?” Michael asked. He shoved his pants and boxers down in one go, cock hanging heavy between his thighs. He leaned back down over her and wrapped his arm around the back of her head. Her nipples prickled against his chest, breasts soft against him. “Now, quit complaining. I got you.”

He lined himself up, slicking up the tip of his cock, and pushed in slowly until he bottomed out. She squeezed his biceps, his shoulders, digging her nails into his back until her hands came to rest on his ass. The hand not holding onto the back of her head snaked up to grasp her breast, thumb rolling her nipple. She squeaked as the rough pad of his thumb brushed over her nipple, so close to begging him that she bit her lip to stop herself. He’d never heard her make that noise, and it only served to spur him on even harder. 

“What was that, baby? I can’t hear you.”

She lifted her hips up to meet his. “ _Michael_.”

“Come on, princess.” He thrust again, slow and hard, and tweaked her nipple with the pad of his thumb in a relentless circle. “I wanna hear you say it.”

“ _Fuck me_ , Michael.”

He yanked her leg up over his shoulder. “Fuck me, _what_?”

“Fuck me, _please_!”

Michael grinned and pulled her closer to him, throwing her other leg over his shoulder. She tightened around him, solidifying the relatively short time frame he had left. The harder she clenched down around him, the closer it brought him to tipping over that precarious edge. He dropped his hand down to her clit again, circling and pressing until she dug her nails into his ass and cried out his name. That, of course, was more than enough to send him hurtling along right after her. He filled her completely, thrusting until he was completely spent. She’d be pissed he didn’t pull out, but it was more so because cleanup was annoying. He liked that, though - claiming her, marking her as his. She rarely let him do it, and only when she was this worked up.

He pulled out and kissed her before climbing off the couch. Yeah, there went his back. Probably his knees, too. The look on her face was worth it, though. The boneless exhaustion, the catty glare, the softness hidden behind all the sass - completely worth whatever new ache or pain he was about to discover.

Jen stretched and stood. She should probably search for her underwear. And her dress, for that matter. Michael had dropped both behind the couch, along with the rest of his clothes. He made no move to get dressed himself, just watched as she bent over the back of the couch to grab her underwear. 

Michael pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her waist once she’d slipped back into her underwear. “So, you wanna finish the movie?”

She glared her catty glare, half-hearted as it may have been. “You’re an ass.”

“Ooh, that’s not what you said a minute ago.”

She looped her arms around his neck, reaching up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Ah, but remember: payback is a bitch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short note: I graduated from law school! Writing smut is how I celebrate.


	5. Main Mission // Blaine County

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little filler. The smut shall return shortly. And guess who shows up today...

The Blaine County sun beat down with vigor, sun-bleaching everything that wasn’t immediately covered by shade. Though it was unbelievably early, not a semblance of the cool desert night remained, having already been burned away by the mid-summer sun. Waves of heat shimmered in the air, surrounding the roughed-up double-wide trailers and barely-paved roads like malevolent spirits.

Jen loved the San Andreas heat, but she was definitely thinking the all-black outfit and black boots was a snafu on her part. The whole outfit was all overlaid by the required District Attorney windbreaker and bulletproof vest, meaning that every last bit of heat was trapped under the jacket, though it kept her out of the sun. Beads of sweat crawled down her scalp, winding through her hair. It dripped down her nose, even despite the wide-open air conditioning.

She’d made the four-hour drive up to Blaine County the night before to meet with the investigators searching the Lost MC’s self-contained trailer park. The lead investigator, a windburned man in his last fifties, had been out in Sandy Shores for weeks searching for some idea as to who’d been sneaky and conniving enough to take out the whole chapter. Said investigator waved her down as soon as she turned onto the dirt road in front of the trailer park. She parked and shoved her dark sunglasses up the bridge of her nose before climbing out of her Schwartzer. 

The sheer destruction ravaging the hellish scene was morbidly impressive. Half the trailers had been blown to shit; the other half were riddled with bullet holes and painted with blood splatters. A few free-standing motorcycles and trucks littered the park, their owners long dead. Chalk lines decorated the ground like pale snakes, curling around the bikes and slithering behind the truck beds. 

Jen stepped gingerly over the wreckage of one trailer - the very front trailer - while one of the investigators followed behind her. Most of the ruined trailers were simple residences, as the park was really just a collection of double-wides all arranged around one single area. One of the trailers held the charred remains of a fairly intricate meth lab, but it wasn’t large enough to have caused the whole trailer park to go up in flames. It also didn’t explain the bullet holes and blood splatters.

The investigator stepped lightly over what may have been either a motorcycle part or the blackened remains of a human arm. It was up in the air, really. “Fire marshal said this started from five individual charges. We’re thinking they were planted.”

“Five individual charges,” Jen repeated. A trickle of sweat ran down under her bra strap and into her underwear. Gross. “Maybe an explosives stockpile went up and set off a reaction?”

“That’s what we thought at first, but there's only one stockpile. It was in the back trailer, and it hadn’t been touched.”

“Okay, so, someone snuck in and planted the bombs,” Jen said. “Was it an inside job? Or were they so strung out they couldn’t catch someone sneaking around?”

The investigator led her behind one of the trucks. Two markers had been left buried in the sand, signaling the position of two bodies. 

“Some of the bodies we found predeceased the others by several days. We think they were doing a chapter-only send-off for Johnny Klebitz and his inner circle.”

“Ah, distracted, then.” Jen peered through a wide bullet hole in the side of the trailer they’d stopped next to. She could see a busted TV, two pairs of filthy underwear hanging off the back of a chair, and a half-opened girly magazine laying on the deserted bed. “Who do we know who hates the Lost, has access to explosives, and enough balls to full-frontal assault them?”

“Every citizen in Blaine County?”

Jen snorted. “True.”

The investigator led her to the back trailer where the Lost’s weapons stockpile was located. The trailer itself hadn’t been touched by anyone other than the Lost and the investigators, but the weapons and explosives had long since been confiscated and disposed of.

“It’s not the Aztecas,” the investigator said. “They’ve been laying low after that shootout at the gas station a few weeks back.”

“Y’all found Ortega floating in the river pretty soon after that, right?”

“Right.”

“Probably retaliation for something, but they won’t be up-and-running for a while. The Aztecas are out,” Jen said with finality. The investigator led her back around to the front of the park. She made a beeline for her Schwartzer and immediately switched on the air without bothering to let the car warm up. Sweet, blessed A/C. “And the O’Neils met roughly the same fate at the Lost just last week.”

The investigator leaned against the hood of her car, face halfway into her passenger-side window. Jen had a mind to tell him to move since he was letting all the cold out, but she kept her tongue. He kept on talking. “Have you been out to the O’Neil’s farm yet?”

She shook her head. “No, I’m heading over there as soon as we’re done here.”

“It’s worse than this. Someone set fire to the meth lab in the basement after they gunned down most of the brothers. Whole house is blown to pieces. ”

“Jesus,” Jen said, whistling. She probably wouldn’t be getting out of her car, then. “Might be the same person who did this. So, who’s a big enough asshole to have beef with the Lost MC, the Aztecas, and the O’Neils?”

The investigator shrugged. “No clue. They’re the three biggest meth runners in Blaine County, and they’ve always been relatively civil with each other.”

Jen was silent for a beat. The A/C in her car felt heavenly against her face, but it did next-to-nothing to really abate the truly atrocious heat. Her sunglasses slipped down the bridge of her nose, and she shoved them right back up again.

Three different meth rings, all taken down in roughly similar ways. No one around Blaine County conducted business with straight force - at least no one she knew. Couldn’t be an inside job from the Lost; those bikers so such smelled a rat and they’d put a bullet in your skull. The O’Neils had been cooking up their own concoctions for generations and had only just started selling to places outside of Sandy Shores in the past few months. The Aztecas were about as secretive as it got up here and kept their meth lab locations remote and tightly controlled, having started as an off-branch of Madrazo’s business. The meth was the main commonality, but there was one other Jen could see.

“Looks like you’ve got an up-and-comer, then,” Jen said finally. “Say, who owns the gas station that got shot up?”

“It’s been abandoned for a long time,” the investigator replied. Well, shit. “There are cars parked behind it every now and then, though. I’m sure there’s a record floating around somewhere.”

Jen grabbed her notepad and a pen from the passenger’s seat of her Schwartzer. “I’ll pull that when I get back to my computer. It might be worth poking around.”

Jen thanked the investigator and pulled out of the Lost’s trailer park. It would take her an hour to get to the O’Neil’s farm, as it was in a bumfuck area on the other side of Sandy Shores from her current bumfuck area. She could at least grab lunch on the way there, though. And when she was done, she could head back to her hotel for the night and be on her merry way back to Los Santos for the weekend in the morning. 

Sandy Shores was home to a couple of good little hidden diners, but she simply didn’t have enough time to stop in for lunch. Maybe dinner, though. The only thing qualifying as fast food in Sandy Shores was a run-down Cluckin’ Bell hidden behind two defunct gas stations. This particular Cluckin’ Bell was notorious for giving passers-through salmonella and general food poisoning, but it was the only feasible option. She swung through, ordered the safest thing she could find (soda and fries), and headed out to the farm.

Yeah, she didn’t need to get out of her car. The O’Neils were big-time, so they had an extensive business. Meth lab explosions were always bad, but the resulting explosion of their sprawling basement setup had essentially carved out a crater in the ground. Everything that hadn’t immediately been incinerated or gone flying had sagged down into the crater. The clean-up crews hadn’t even bothered to fight through the mess; every ragged splinter and jagged glass shard was still strewn through the yard. She didn’t even drive too close - the last thing she needed was a nail in her tire all the way out here.

She turned at the end of the driveway and drove all the way back out to the Sandy Shores Motel. The motel was, as far as Blaine County motels went, not completely terrible. The sheets smelled like bleach but were clean, and the non-smoking rooms smelled like weed instead of regular cigarettes. The internet wasn’t awful, either.

Jen sat cross-legged on the motel bed and worked until dinner. Haines and Dave would appreciate having the next set of Blaine County reports on their desk before they had to make a special trip to harass her, and she could be reasonably assured a moment’s peace. She left the gas station lead out of her report, though. She wanted to follow up before disclosing the lead, if there was even anything to disclose.

She’d had to sift through some records, but she managed to track down the listed owner of the gas station. A Mr. _Phil Atio_ was the sole signature on the shoddy paperwork. She laughed when she saw it. How clever; whoever falsified the paperwork and the deed had a sense of humor. No matter - she’d work her way up the chain of possession until someone could tell her about Mr. Phil Atio.

When dinner rolled around, she grabbed her laptop and walked across the street to the Sandy Shores Diner. Sandy Shores wasn’t exactly a hotbed of criminal activity, but she knew better than to leave her computer unattended. She could work through dinner anyway.

The waitress was an older woman who’d obviously been the waitress for a long time, as she knew every customer by name except for Jen. She was gruff, but polite. She told Jen what was safe to order and brought her an extra late-night coffee to go. Other than that, she left Jen well-enough alone. 

A chill settled into the diner, signaling the imminent arrival of the cold desert night. Jen tapped steadily away at her laptop until the sun started sinking down behind the horizon. The place had pretty much cleared out by then, apart from herself, the waitress, and the cook behind the counter. It was silent, apart from the steady tapping of keys and the low strains of country music twanging over the radio.

The front door bell of the diner rang, signaling the entrance of another set of customers. Jen glanced up to find the back of a grubby white t-shirt and the back of a red flannel taking a seat at the booth on the other side of the diner. She ducked back behind her laptop again, paying no special mind to their presence until she felt a pair of eyes boring a hole into her forehead.

White Shirt sat facing her in the booth, leering at her with deep-set eyes under a slash of dark eyebrows. He winked at her when she looked up at him, grinning like a skeleton on Halloween. He then turned his attention to the waitress taking his order. After he gave his order, he got up and went to the restroom, still staring her down with every step.

The waitress strode over to her, pot of coffee in hand. She leaned in close and she tipped the coffee pot over into Jen’s to-go cup. “Darlin’, I think you need to head back across the street now.”

Jen tipped her head at the booth ahead of her. The man in the flannel shirt and fishing hat was busily sipping his coffee, though Jen could tell he was staring at them in the window reflection. “Should I expect trouble?”

“Nah, but you’re gonna wanna be gone before the other one comes back. He’s a talker.”

“Point taken,” Jen said. 

She started stacking her paperwork so she could stow it back in her bag. She almost wasn't expecting White Shirt to sit down. Almost. As she sipped her coffee and finished packing up the Lost MC report to Haines and Norton, she was startled by his sudden presence in the booth facing her. The waitress looked on with apprehension, the look on her face one of someone who didn't quite make it to the restroom in time.

He wasn’t bad-looking - a little grubby, a little creepy, hair thinning, but not bad. Clean him up a little bit and Jen could admit he might even be her type. Still, looks were no excuse to drop her guard.

He leaned in, giving her a good once-over. "You're not from Sandy Shores are you, gorgeous?"

"I'm new in town," Jen replied, peering at him over her laptop. She drained the last of her coffee and busied herself with packing up.

He obviously caught what she was doing, but he didn't appear to care. He was technically blocking her path to the door, but she could humor him for another minute. "Ah, you don't sound like you're from anywhere near good ol' Sandy Shores."

Sometimes she was surprised by how easily lies rolled off the tongue now-a-days. She'd gotten quite good at it over the years. "Does Paleto Bay count?"

"Noooo," White Shirt teased. His method of turning on the charm was quite abrasive. Had he done so at any other time, not wearing a grubby undershirt and ratty sweats, Jen might have been more forthcoming. "Peach City?"

"Good guess," Jen said. She glanced at the waitress, who took the hint. "Never could totally lose the accent."

The waitress strode over to bus Jen's booth. She addressed White Shirt while she stacked the plates. "Coffee's on the table and Ron's already eating."

"Well, tell him to fucking wait for me," he snapped, but he relented and stood up. He bent over the table, right in her space. "I'll see you around then, sweetheart."

Jen tipped her head at the waitress and bolted for the door. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Once she arrived back at her motel room, she locked the door and made double-sure she locked up her Schwartzer. She didn’t think she’d need it, but she put a chair in front of the door anyway.

* * *

Michael never showed up to Jen’s apartment unannounced. It just simply wasn’t done. It's not that either one of them had a problem with it per se - it was just understood. He kept their relationship out of his house, and he always let her know when he was dropping by. 

Besides, he didn't feel comfortable waiting for her to buzz him in. Her place was crawling with cops. Yeah, the regular beat cops had seen him come and go plenty of times, but there were too many cops patrolling her apartment building at all times for him to feel entirely comfortable waiting for her to answer the door. Call it force of habit.

But today… today was the first time in six years he’d shown up at her apartment unannounced. He didn't know what else to do - he'd jump out a window if he went home in his current state of mind. Amanda was ready to kill him. He’d toss _Jimmy_ out of a window if he had to listen to him screaming at his TV anymore. Tracey was rarely ever home, and when she was, she holed up in her room with the door closed. 

And now, most of all, Trevor knew where he lived. 

Fuckin’ _Trevor_. After ten years… 

And finally, two weeks after Trevor shows up, Dave Norton smashes the back of his head open and makes him fight through a morgue filled with spooks. Michael was amazed he was still in one piece after that shitshow (though the back of his head hurt like hell). He couldn't be too sure that the blow to the back of his head hadn't scrambled his brains.

Michael should’ve stayed home. He knew it. But he’d been driving around Los Santos to clear his head for two hours with no real rhyme or reason as to his end destination. He’d stop at a bar, idle in front of the door, then drive off again when he got too agitated or paranoid to get out of the car and walk in. He’d pull into the drive-thru of a fast food restaurant, then drive off right before he got to the kiosk to order. A couple of pedestrians almost got clipped when they’d gotten too frisky in the crosswalk.

So, he did the only thing he could think to do. Before he knew it, he’d parked next to Jen’s Schwartzer and hauled his ass into the elevator of her apartment building. 

Jen answered the door on the second knock. He hadn’t seen her since Trevor showed up, with her being busy with work and him trying to evade death, so her face was a welcome sight. She took one look at him and ushered him in without question. 

Gunfire roared through the room, a by-product of whatever she’d been watching on TV before he’d shown up. It looked like an old mobster movie, judging by all the blood. She loved that shit. _Goodfellas_ , _Scarface_ , _The Sopranos_ , all the _Godfather_ movies - she could quote them all word for word. She once told him she’d marry James Gandolfini, no questions asked. Considering the nature of their relationship, her preferences made a lot of sense.

The volume was too loud right now, though. Michael grabbed the TV remote and lowered the volume before his blood pressure crawled any higher. He stalked through her living room like an anxious dog, pacing, pacing, without saying a word.

Finally, Jen gently pried the TV remote from his clenched hand and turned the volume off completely. “What happened, Michael?”

“Trevor.”

“Excuse me?”

Jen had a vague concept of who Trevor was and why his presence was bad, but Michael outright refused to talk about him whenever he was brought up. What little he’d told her left with a hazy picture of a loony, methed-up drug runner. 

“Trevor happened,” Michael replied tightly. “Trevor is alive. And here in Los Santos. He broke into my house. He went with me to go get Tracey off of _Fame or Shame_.”

“Jesus, you told me he was dead.”

“No, I said he was _probably_ dead," Michael snapped. Jen raised an eyebrow - a gentle reminder that she'd throw him out on his ass if he used that tone of voice towards her. He relented. "Well, he’s not dead - he’s here in Los Santos, and he knows where I fuckin’ live.”

Jen gingerly took his hands and led him over to the couch so he’d finally stop wearing a hole in her floor. She got him to sit down and settle in before running to grab a beer from the fridge and handing it off to him. 

“Okay,” Jen started. She folded her legs under her and rested back against the armrest. “Take a breath and calm down before you stroke out on me, you hear?”

“Easier fuckin’ said than done.”

“I understand that,” Jen said. “But nothing can get to you here. You’re in my apartment, which is surrounded by cops.”

“Cops wouldn’t stop him.”

Jen pursed her lips. “Well, they’d slow him down. So, sit there until you calm down enough to tell me what’s going on. What happened with Tracey on Fame or Shame? Why is Trevor here and how does he know where you are?”

Michael popped the top on the bottle of beer she’d handed him and took a long swig. The TV distracted him for a few minutes, though it was still muted. Someone was being strangled with chicken wire. He vaguely remembered doing something similar in times past.

Jen caught his line of sight and the dusty look in his eye. “I can put on a Soloman Richards movie if that’ll help?”

“No, I…" He shook his head. "All right, you want to know what happened?”

Jen took the beer bottle from him and placed it on the side table behind her. Best to remove any potential projectiles from his hand, lest she end up with a hole in her wall. “I heard about the altercation at the _Fame or Shame_ studio. Please, explain.”

“So, I’m trying to make a fuckin’ smoothie, right?”

“Right.”

“I look in the fridge. There’s a big-ass brick of weed sitting right there in plain sight." He paused. "Not that I guess I should be telling you about a ton of weed in my house.”

“No idea what you're talking about. Please, continue.”

“Amanda thinks it’s mine, starts in on me. I turn around - bam, Trevor’s in my kitchen. Just when I think we’re all about to be beheaded, Jimmy says Tracey’s trying out for _Fame or Shame_.”

“Yikes.”

"All that shit goes down, so I call Dave Norton about Trevor. He knocks me out, gets me sent to a morgue where I have to fight my way out while Agency spooks storm the joint.”

“Excuse me?” Jen made a mental note to have a conversation with Dave Norton the next time she saw him. Seems like he needed a gentle reminder as to their agreement. 

“Yeah, there’s a giant goose-egg knot on the back of my head where he pistol-whipped me.”

Jen grabbed his neck and made him lean down. Sure enough, buried in his thick mass of hair, was a pretty substantial knot on the back of his head. If it was enough to knock him out for that long, it could have given him a concussion or a whole host of other problems.

“Let’s take a step back here before I track Dave down right now. Can I do anything to help with the Trevor situation? Do you want me to pull some strings, dangle some carrots, or what?”

“I don’t want you to do a goddamn thing other than make sure that you never, ever meet him. And that you’re never, ever alone in the same room with him,” Michael said. “I don’t want him to know that you even exist.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can, but you’ve never met a man like this. He’s dangerous, Jen.”

Jen crossed her legs, pulling her feet in close. She had met dangerous men before - she was looking at one. But Michael was clearly spooked, which rarely ever happened. "Look, I’ll make sure to keep an eye out? Nothing official, no police presence anywhere around you. Just a watchful eye, okay? You don’t have to worry about me."

"I hope not," Michael replied, pulling her over to him. He wrapped an arm around her and tucked her into his side. “He’s a fuckin’ lunatic.”

Jen looked up at him. A vein pulsed in his jaw, and he stared at the TV screen with a strange determination. “Don’t worry, Mike. It’ll be fine.”

He kept staring straight ahead. “He won’t bother Amanda and the kids, most likely. It’s me he’s pissed at...”

“Look, I don’t need you to worry yourself to death. You worry about yourself. I’m sure I’ll never even meet him.”


	6. Main Mission // By the Book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah, yes, everyone's favorite low-life has appeared. Let's do this.

Steve Haines _lives_ to bother Jen Dixon. At this point, he and Norton show up to her office just to get on her nerves. He doesn't give a shit what a bunch of meth heads bikers do to each other in the middle of the desert. Those cases are hardly worth fighting with her over - it's just fun to do it.

Monitoring the IAA and counseling her on their movements is technically his and Norton's assignment. No, the only reason they should be in her office is to debrief her on IAA surveillance of her activities, which they rarely have to do because she doesn't do anything they can monitor. The IAA thus far has only postured and puffed out their chests at the FIB, threatening to investigate Jen for election fraud. They were just mad their incumbent government stoolie - Jen's predecessor in office - had gotten the boot out the office door.

Steve thinks it's hilarious the IAA chose an election fraud scam to threaten her. Unlike the scores of garbage attorneys who’d slapped their names on the District Attorney candidacy roster, Jen had refused FIB and IAA backing. Steve had to respect that, even if was kind of a stupid move - you really had to have someone on your side to get anywhere in Los Santos. Luckily for her, she was the only candidate other than the incumbent who qualified. She might have been the only one to run a clean race, too.

Regardless of Jen's choice to refuse backing, the FIB had sunk its teeth into her anyway. They needed some semblance of control in the state, so they'd chosen to assign a team to monitor the IAA threat against her. Enter Steve Haines and Dave Norton. They weren't the first pair; the pair before them had been run off by Jen's usual cold, calculating, cranky demeanor and mean comments. Steve and Dave are impervious to her surliness though, thus making them the right team for the job. Steve could deflect just by being himself and Dave because his ex-wife is a whole lot meaner than Jen.

When he and Norton showed up at her office after she’d first been elected District Attorney, she’d tried to be polite. Those good ol’ Southern Belle manners hadn’t _quite_ gone to waste. She still knows how to _yes ma’am_ and _no sir_ with the best of them, and she’s good at it. She doesn’t even bother to humor him anymore. No more, _yes, sir, Agent Haines_ with soft irritation or anything even close. He's more likely to get a door shut in his face now.

Oh, yeah, Steve takes particular pleasure in getting under Jen's skin. Steve has established that they have to monitor not just Michael De Santa for illicit activity, but they have to monitor anyone in his orbit, including his side piece. So, being that he and Norton now had concrete proof in the form of Michael de Santa that Jen knew about the Vengelico robbery before it ever happened, he’s even more pleased that he’s really got her now. And it’s worth making her squirm to remind her just how deep into the FIB’s pocket she is now.

Steve Haines knows just how to make Jen squirm, too.

Steve calls her personal cell phone for this conversation just because he can. Usually, he'd just tie up her office line, but her office line has to go through Mary. Mary has gotten pretty good at fending off his calls. No, it's best to harass her directly. Her personal cell will flash his name in big, pretty letters, so she’ll know she can’t avoid his calls.

Jen answers her phone on the third ring. She tries to be polite, though her even voice is still a little tight. “Agent Haines. How may I be of assistance?”

There's those Southern Belle manners. Just like her southern drawl, she hadn't been able to get rid of them. 

“I’ve got a little off-the-clock work for you to do today, Jenny.”

Steve knows she hates being called Jenny. He also knows why, although he doesn’t think anyone else does, maybe not even Michael fuckin’ De Santa Townley or whatever his fake name is. It's a gentle reminder that he's already dug up every little thing she's ever done, all the way back to the underage drinking citations and joyriding violations. Little Jenny had a wild streak to beat the Devil himself back in the day.

Jen doesn't bother to snap at him this time. He'll just ignore it anyway. “Will I be paid for said work, Agent Haines?”

“You’ll be paid by not being immediately carted off to jail with your sugar daddy and his buddies.”

"There's no probable cause for that, Agent Haines."

He snorts. "Does it matter if there isn't? Be at the foundry at six p.m., or I’ll be coming to pick you up in a black-and-white with the lights on.”

“Whatever.”

Jen hangs up with a soft _fuck this_ , and Steve laughs to himself. If she wants to play cops and robbers from both teams with her sugar daddy, Steve will show her every play in the book. He could tell her that Townley will be there. He could tell her that Trevor Philips will be there. And he could tell Townley his crooked girlfriend is coming to watch his psycho boyfriend torture a guy, but where’s the fun in that?

* * *

It can't get any worse, Michael thought. It can't get any worse than this. Being called out to a government building in the middle of who-the-fuck-cares, smoking a cigarette that he knows he shouldn't, and praying that he doesn't have to shuffle around for the pistol in his pocket to fend of Trevor fuckin' Philips.

They'd reached a tentative stalemate after the raid on the IAA building for Mr. K. Honestly, _tentative_ made it sound almost friendly. They'd hung out a few times, some at Trevor's behest, some at Michael's. They'd created an uneasy facade of the friendship they'd had what felt like millennia ago. Franklin was usually enlisted as a middleman - the Freudian _ego_ to balance out Trevor's _id_ and Michael's _superego_ \- not unlike the North Yankton days.

When Jen’s black Schwartzer pulled up at the foundry, her mass of orange curls the only thing recognizable through her dark window tint, Michael knew he'd only reached the tip of the "this is bad" iceberg. She parked next to Michael's Tailgater, taking up the left-hand so that his car was sandwiched between hers and Trevor's behemoth of a truck. She climbed out of her dusty black Schwartzer still in her suit from work.

Michael was in hell. He was the star of the divine comedy of errors that had become his life. Looking back, Michael would kick himself for believing that it couldn't get any worse than being forced to act as an FIB flunky. Shit can, and will, always get worse.

His mouth went dry as Trevor caught sight of her, and he could have had a heart attack right then and there when Trevor opened his mouth and said in a voice as smooth as a purr, “Well, look who it is! Didn’t pin you for a government stooge, sweetheart.”

Did his chest hurt? Was this a heart attack? Maybe his balls had receded so quickly they'd slammed into his sternum.

“Right, White Shirt from the diner,” Jen said. A thin film of dust had settled on Jen’s skirt where it had been kicked up as she trudged through the loose dirt parking lot. She brushed it away and smoothed the wrinkles out of her suit shirt. “I’m not a government stooge, by the way.”

She spoke to Trevor like he was a casual acquaintance. Where had she met him? When had she been anywhere close enough to him to be anywhere on his radar? What the hell kind of diner did she go to?

“Then who are you?” Trevor’s voice was sharp, nearing defensive, though he never once broke out of his purr. He stepped towards her, carefully considering her all-black suit and shirt and expensive shoes. “You don't look like a hood. You a white collar type?"

Michael managed to snap to his senses. He stepped in front of Jen, placing himself between her and Trevor. “T, this is-”

Jen stepped out from behind him, brushing his arm with her shoulder. His eyes bored into the back of her head. Did she remember anything he'd said to her? Or had it all gone in one ear and out the other? 

“Something like that.” Jen mirrored Trevor's once-over. "I'm the District Attorney over Los Santos and Blaine County."

Michael put his hand on the small of her back and tugged lightly at her shirt, trying to get her to back up. She ignored him, earning a huff. Oh, yeah, they were gonna have a talk later. There was a time for pride, and there was a time to do what he asked for once. This was the latter.

Trevor all but howled out a laugh. "So the DA is crooked, too? Surprise, surprise."

"Have you ever met a lawyer who wasn't crooked?" Michael said, finally just taking Jen by the arm and pulling her to the side. She snatched her arm away. “At least this one is on our side.”

"You got me there,” Trevor replied, taking a step forward. He clapped his hands, startling the both of them, before holding out a hand for Jen to shake. He squeezed her hand with calloused fingers. "Trevor Philips, sweetheart. C.E.O. of Trevor Philips Industries." 

"Jen Dixon." Jen noticed the tattoo scrawled across his knuckles and idly wondered if he'd gotten it at the same time Michael had gotten his.

They were all hardly more than two feet apart now - an odd three-way variation of a spaghetti western standoff. Too close for Michael's comfort. He waved so they'd follow him into the building, Trevor still yammering behind him.

“Where’d you find this one, Mikey?" Trevor asked, looming behind Jen. "You in bed with the state and the feds?”

“Just me,” Jen said. “I’m in charge of the state, though.”

Trevor growled, low and lecherous. “Well, I do like a dominant lady… Even if you are a cop.”

"Yeah, you look like you want someone to knock you around a little," Michael snapped. He waved Jen in front of him so that there was a barrier between the two of them.

"Ooo, someone's territorial," Trevor smirked. Michael could smack the smirk off of him. "This must be your current _other woman_ , Mikey. She does know about Amanda, right?"

"I’m very aware, actually," Jen replied smoothly.

It became immediately apparent as soon as they entered the building that something altogether unpleasant was about to happen. The place was filthy, for one thing. There was one single chair sitting in the middle of the room next to what appeared to be a medical tray. Said medical tray contained a variety of instruments, most of which were rusted and equally filthy.

Haines stood in the center of the room, flanked by Dave Norton and another man in full running gear. He and athleisure asshole shot the shit while Dave looked on and sipped his coffee. He waved as soon as he caught sight of them.

"Gentlemen," Haines hummed smugly, "and Jen. Looks like you finally decided to show up. Have you met Devin Weston, by the way?"

Michael didn't like the look of the athleisure asshole currently making his timely exit from the building. "No." 

"Well, that's too bad," Haines replied. "In any case, thanks for taking your sweet time showing up. You boys have some work to do."

Michael’s unpleasant hunch was confirmed when Haines brought the guy they’d essentially abducted from the IAA out to the chair in the middle of the floor. The guy begged Haines to let him go, weak and hunched over as he was. Haines obviously wasn't going to do that.

"Now, here's what's going to happen," Haines began after he'd settled Mr. K into the chair. "Townley, you're going with Agent Norton. Mr. K is going to tell us about the guy, and you're going to find him."

Haines clapped Mr. K on the shoulder. "Philips, you're going to utilize your talents on Mr. K here."

Trevor seemed unaffected by his designation. Michael glanced at Jen. She stared at Haines, mouth set in a hard line. Her arms were crossed, her knuckles white where she gripped her own biceps.

"Dixon, you're going to be keeping me company. You're also going to assist Philips if necessary, as he deems fit."

Haines ordered Michael and Dave out, leaving Michael to become the government assassin he’d never dreamed of becoming. Michael cast a final over his shoulder as he exited the building behind Dave, leaving Jen in the hands of Haines and Trevor.

As soon as Dave crawled in the car, Michael rounded on him. “Who the fuck came up with this bright idea?”

“Hey, now, don’t take it out on me." Dave rolled his eyes and sipped his coffee, directing Michael where to go. "Blame Steve. He’s the one who wants Trevor to do his dirty work.”

“And calling Jen in?”

“An easy way to keep you in check and remind her who she answers to.”

Michael slammed his hand down on the car horn, flipping off the car that had just cut him off. He pointed at Dave. “She didn’t have anything to do with the fuckin’ jewelry store thing, Dave.”

“So you say.”

“And forcing her to watch Trevor torture someone is how you remind her who she answers to?”

"No, it's reminding _you_ who you answer to." Dave instructed him to turn in at the Bean Machine while they awaited instructions. “It wasn’t my idea, Michael. But yes, that was Steve’s method.”

“Seems like the punishment don’t fit the crime.”

“She’s not fragile." Dave turned to him. "You ever watched her try a case? She once forced a jury to watch an entire snuff film and didn't bat an eye.”

“Getting a live performance is different.”

Dave sighed and took the cup of coffee Michael handed him. “How about we focus on the job at hand? Let her handle herself.”

Sensing that was the final straw in that conversation, Michael took a sip of his coffee. He decided, instead, to pick at a different scab.

"Trevor recognized you."

Dave sighed again. "No, he didn't."

"Oh, yes, he did. And now, he's your problem to worry about, too. You'll be floating in the river right along with me if we don't figure this out."

"I was on television a lot after your funeral," Dave replied simply. "Besides, he won't figure it out if you don't give him a reason."

* * *

Jen tried major crimes. Murders, and only murders. Trying a murder requires a lot of attention to detail, especially since you quite literally have someone’s life in your hands. Sometimes it requires sifting through stacks of reports and crime scene photos. Sometimes it requires walking through crime scenes personally. Sometimes it requires watching videos no one should ever have to see.

Jen had seen some bad shit. She’d seen videos from gas stations of murders occurring well into the night, point blank gunshots to the head, execution style, in the heat of passion. She’d seen private photographs of angry ex-husbands who took pleasure in reminding their former spouse of why they’d left in the first place. Kidnappings of children. Rape videos. Snuff films. She’d seen some _bad shit_.

But she'd never _seen_ bad shit.

And it was very, very clear that Trevor was a professional of _bad shit_. He exacted pain with a practiced hand that required no assistance on her part, thankfully. It wasn't that he did it with fervor - it was that he did it without a single bit of emotion at all. Pleading did nothing to dissuade him. The blood didn’t make him gag, nor did the smell of burning flesh from the shock pads. 

Haines fell into the same vein. He obviously wasn't affected by the blood, or the screaming, or anything that Trevor did. He simply took the information Mr. K gave and doled it out to Norton over the phone, almost gleefully.

Jen did her best to keep a straight face, to watch on with the practiced dissociation she'd perfected over the years of watching videos no one should ever have to see. To watch without watching - without internalizing. She tried to ignore the smell of blood, vomit, and burning flesh. She tried to ignore Haines’ near-glee as he grabbed every bit of information he could. Ultimately, she failed when the guy flatlined and had to be resuscitated by Trevor with a pair of filthy plastic paddles. She gagged as he choked on his own vomit, desperately searching for air.

It seemed to drag on forever, this failing dissociation. And then all at once, Haines was instructing Trevor to finish up and leaving the two of them behind in the building. Haines may have said something to her on his way out, but she didn’t catch it. She probably didn’t want to hear it anyway.

Trevor cut the guy free and dragged him towards the door, ushering him to walk in his low growl. He looked back at Jen with an expression almost verging on sympathetic, as she hadn't moved a muscle.

"You gonna be okay, kid?"

"I'm fine," she replied automatically. She was not, in fact, fine. Rather, she was turning green.

"Yeah, no, you’re not," Trevor said, snapping his fingers. "Let’s go! Now!"

“What?”

“You’re my assistant, right?” Trevor snapped. “Stop asking questions and just follow me.”

She didn't have to be told twice. She followed Trevor outside as he hauled Mr. K's limp but breathing form into his truck. He waved her over to the truck with the order to get in. She realized a little too late that the truck didn’t have a backseat for her to crawl into. Ergo, the front middle seat was hers. Practiced dissociation works wonderfully when you’re sandwiched between a barely-conscious torture victim and a guy covered in someone else’s blood. In her fugue, she made a half-assed note not to tell Michael she’d somewhat willingly climbed into Trevor’s truck.

After Trevor dropped Mr. K off at the airport, Jen still refused to slide over in the seat. She sat wedged next to him for the duration of the ride which, it turns out, was still far too fucking long. She made it about two blocks from the airport before ordering him to pull over. He complied by swerving into the nearest parking lot where she opened the passenger’s-side door and promptly vomited. 

Fuckin’ Steve Haines. She’d find a way to get him back.

“Alright, where am I taking you?”

Jen blinked, finally brushing off the brain fog keeping her sane. Trevor’s voice sounded like it was underwater. “Back to my car.”

“Uh, _no_ ,” he replied. He pulled out onto the street. “You’re not in any state to drive.”

Once again, her reply was automatic. “I’m fine.”

Trevor revved the huge truck, making her jump nearly out of her seat. “Yeah, ya sure look fine to me, sweetheart.”

“Fuck you,” Jen snapped, but she relented. She gave him her address without considering exactly who she was giving her address to. Definitely would not be telling Michael _any_ of this.

“Vespucci Beach, huh?” Trevor seemed to want to keep up the conversation, which she assumed was his way of taking her mind off things. “We’re basically neighbors!”

“Oh, joy.”

“Figured you’d live somewhere ritzier.”

She glared up at him, but he didn’t notice. “I like Vespucci Beach.”

Traffic was awful, but they made it back to Vespucci Beach within the hour. Trevor weaved in and out between cars without regard as to where all edges and corners of the truck actually landed. It was more than enough to make her sick again, but she kept it down this time. 

“We’re gonna get a drink,” Trevor announced, swinging into the first bar he could find. Jen latched on to the truck’s open roll cage, praying that she wouldn’t get thrown out. “Because you need a _distraction_.”

“If you insist,” Jen muttered, clutching her seatbelt as Trevor zipped through the parking lot to find a spot. Not that she had a choice - she was pretty much at his mercy. She should have just called a taxi.

Trevor pulled into an empty spot and slammed on the brakes, tapping the front bumper of the car in front of him. He got out and made a show of opening the door for her, gesturing for her to get out of the vehicle and opining with a poor southern accent. "M'lady."

"C'mon," Jen said, rolling her eyes. She was a little shaky on her feet. "Alcoholism and poor choices await."

She let him lead the way into the bar, surveying everything around her. She wouldn’t have pinned this as somewhere he’d be interested in going. This was the kind of place where girls wore string bikinis and the top floor was a topless bar. Still, she wasn't exactly surprised that he chose this place. There were a lot of mostly-naked people, even for a Thursday. 

Trevor marched up to the bar and waved the bartender over. "Two Jagerbombs."

"And a gin and tonic for me," Jen called over the blaring music.

"One of these Jagerbombs is yours," Trevor called over his shoulder.

"I know," Jen replied. "I'm gonna need a chaser."

Trevor hooted. "Well, in that case, two Jagerbombs, a g&t, and an extra shot of whatever's handy for me!"

Jen watched him knock back both shots and chug his beer. She mirrored him and tossed back her own shot, face twisting in discomfort. She sipped on the gin and tonic to ease the bitter taste.

Trevor giggled in her ear. He smelled like smoke and blood. "Heheh, gin for Jen."

"The true test of thinly veiled alcoholism is how closely one's name rhymes with one's drink of choice," Jen replied, draining her glass. That was more than enough to give her a buzz once it started to metabolize. 

“True that,” Trevor replied, raising his mostly empty glass. He swung around in the stool next to her and leaned against the bar. “Alright, now tell me about you and our boy, Mikey.”

“What’s there to tell?” Jen asked. She didn’t know how much she should tell him - how much he may be willing to use. She’d told Franklin pretty much everything, so she supposed she could tell Trevor roundabouts the same spill. 

Trevor scoffed. “I mean, what’s your _angle_? What’s your _story_? How long have you two been running around together?”

“Six years.”

“Long time to keep a side piece. And no one’s gone home boo-hooing about the fact you can’t be together or get married or whatever?” Trevor asked, incredulous. He motioned for the bartender to bring over a beer. “Come on, what’s the deal? What’s the scoop? Why were you in that warehouse? Why is the District Attorney of Los Santos - the HBIC, if you will - running around with a has-been stick-up artist, doing dirty work for the feds?”

“We have an arrangement,” Jen replied. She graciously took the second beer that the bartender brought over. She didn’t think she should be drinking, but maybe the alcohol would kill enough brain cells that she’d forget the past few hours of her day. “He gets what he needs, and I get what I need.”

“And what do you need, sweetheart?” Trevor grinned, leaning in. Jen rolled her eyes at him. “What can ol’ Sugar Tits do for you? And what can Uncle T do to help?”

“Good lord,” Jen sighed. She liked a thicker man, but Trevor might have been her type under different circumstances. He was cut and springy, tall, probably wouldn’t be half-bad if he cleaned up, but he smelled like blood and meth. “Let me explain in the best way I know how. Twenty-five year old Jen was looking for something that Michael could provide. Michael was looking for something that twenty-five year old Jen could provide.”

“ _Meaning_?” Trevor replied, drawing out every syllable of the word.

“I wanted someone to pay my rent without requiring too much commitment. Michael wanted to get his dick wet. It works for both of us.”

“And you don’t feel even the least bit annoyed that Michael goes home to Amanda and his kids every night instead of you?”

“Not a bit,” Jen replied. Eh, maybe sometimes, but she wasn’t telling Trevor. “See, when Amanda is happy, Michael is happy, and that means that I don’t have to listen to him bitch and moan about her. When Amanda isn’t happy, Mike’s not happy, and I fix it. There’s a system in place.”

“And what do _you_ get out of that system?”

“I get what I need.”

“But do you get _joy_? Or satis _faction_? Is this just meaningless, emotionless sex masquerading as a barter system? Or do you… _want_ something out of this?”

Jen snorted. “I get what I _want_ quite frequently enough.”

Trevor downed the last of the liquor in front of him and stared at her with his yellowed, bloodshot eyes. “But what is it… that you _want_?”

Jen returned his stare, searching his face for an unspoken explanation. He had a great poker face, and the closer she leaned in, the more she liked his face in general. Clean him up, and he might even be passable as a real human being. “What are you trying to drag out of me?”

Trevor slammed his hand on the table. “You _love_ him.”

“No, we have an arrangement,” Jen said, glaring pointedly at the bartender when he came back around to try to take their order. “I think it’s been lucrative for both of us, in various ways.”

“ _Noooo_ …” Trevor gritted his teeth, fighting through the gentle haze of alcohol slowly permeating his brain. Jen doubted it was anything that he wasn’t already used to. Wait, wasn’t he supposed to drive her home? “You _love_ him.”

“It’s not about _love_ -”

Jen was cut off by the presence of a hand on her shoulder. When she turned around, she found another attorney - Chad? Charles? probably Chad - standing behind her. He was the archetype of the usual Los Santos formula: tall, well-built, fake tan, and blonde. She recognized him off-hand as a private defense attorney. He shook her hand heartily and eyed Trevor with a measured amount of apprehension and disgust.

“Princess Jen! How’re you doing? What are you up to?” Chad asked, obviously quite far along on his way to being completely hammered. “Who’s this? New boyfriend? Finally dumped that other guy?”

“This is my…” Jen side-eyed Trevor. She could feel Trevor’s eyes boring into the back of her head. “Uncle T.”

Chad hummed. “Ah, I thought you might have gotten a new boyfriend or somethin’. You do like ‘em old, Jen.”

"Did you need something, Chad? Or did you just come by to be nosy?" Jen snapped. Chad was annoying on the best of days, and she certainly didn't appreciate him bothering her in public.

"Ah, I just wanted to know who this guy was." Chad clapped her on the shoulder. She smacked his hand away, leaving him to clutch his wrist like a hit dog. "Alright, Princess, I'll see you Monday!"

"Stop calling me Princess," Jen huffed at his retreating back. She grabbed her drink and swallowed the reminder. As she slammed her empty glass back on the table, she caught Trevor's smug grin to her left. "What?"

Trevor pressed in close to her side. "So, they call you Princess in your circle, huh?"

"Yeah, when they think I'm not listening."

"Why do they call you Princess?"

Jen shrugged him off. "My boyfriend is thirteen years older than me and I'm the youngest person in the office - of course they call me that."

"Prin- _cess_ -Jen," Trevor hooted. "I like it! It fits!"

“No, it doesn’t!”

“Oh, yes, it does!” He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her in close. Yeah, he definitely smelled like meth. Nice arms, though. “The expensive clothes, the older man boyfriend, the high-powered job. Fits you to the letter!”

Jen sighed. "I guess it’s better than _Jenny_ at least. I hate that."

Trevor’s voice sing-songed with every syllable. "Does Michael call you princess?"

"I am not at liberty to disclose that information."

“Oh my God, he _does_.”

“No.”

“Do you call him _daddy_?”

“Abso _lute_ ly not,” Jen snapped. She shoved him away. “This conversation is over. Finish your drink so we can leave.”

“You can call me _daddy_ , Princess Jen,” Trevor hummed. “Actually, no, scratch that - I like Uncle T better.”

“Please shut up.”

" _Prin-cess_ …"

"Pay my fucking bar tab and drive me home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may be wondering how I put chapters out so quickly. This has been 75% written for, like, years. I'm just adding bits and cleaning stuff up. Editing is a bitch, man.


	7. Main Mission // Election Fraud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little update, a little filler, a little set-up. Let's do this.

Haines and Norton had made themselves scarce since the Mr. K incident. Two weeks since that day in the FIB building, and not a phone call nor an email from either of them. Jen had expected a debrief (i.e. gloating) at the very least, but she’d been spared of all communications from her begrudging babysitters. That was just as well - it was better for their own safety if they stayed away for a while. Dave was close to the top of her shit list and Haines was still in immediate danger of being strangled on sight. 

The incident kept her mind entirely preoccupied. It was nearing the two-week mark, and she still had nightmares every night. Vivid, blistering nightmares where she would wake up ready to swear in front of God and the Pope himself that she could smell vomit regurgitated from an empty stomach and rusty blood. She’d woken up from every nightmare for days afterward with a steadily increasing count of cuts and holes in her mouth, most of which were only just starting to heal. She shook for two whole days following the incident, startled by every loud noise, and nothing short of a trip to the psychiatrist had done anything to ease her anxiety. 

Michael had been approximately zero help. He was off somewhere doing whatever it is that Michael does during the day, probably laying low for a while so the FIB would leave him alone. The last time Jen heard from him, he’d met her at her apartment after Trevor dropped her off. He’d been clearly perturbed upon arrival, understandably so since he’d just shot a man. He’d paced and paced around her living room again, asking her where she’d met Trevor, why she hadn't told him, what happened at the FIB building, if she’d heard from Haines or Norton.

She’d explained most of it: Sandy Shores Diner, didn't catch a name, watched Trevor torture the guy, nothing from Haines or Norton. Easy peasy. She’d left out the part where Trevor kind-of/sort-of tried to comfort her in his own Trevor way by plying her with alcohol to numb her reeling brain and driving her home so she didn’t end up in an accident. She’d gotten Franklin to do her a favor and bring her Schwartzer up from the FIB building, so Michael was none the wiser. No reason to give him a heart attack when nothing happened. He'd stayed until 2AM, curled up on her couch watching movies with her in his lap, obviously distressed and uncharacteristically quiet.

Of the three men currently occupying most of her free time (Michael and Franklin yes, but when had she let Trevor achieve that designation?), she’d only heard from Franklin in the past couple of weeks. They’d gone to a movie up in Vinewood last weekend. Most likely, Michael had clued him in on the goings-on, and that was Franklin’s version of being comforting. She liked his method. They’d watched the movie in silence, swigging from liquor flasks she’d smuggled into the theater in her purse like teenagers. 

Jen had more than enough on her plate with work to give herself a good distraction. The Blaine County investigation coupled with her stack of murder cases meant she was taking home multitudes of reports and case files every single night. Not to mention, her own pet project of finding whoever owned the gas station had done a spectacular job of keeping her up at night. Most people would have let that die, but there was this nagging feeling deep in her gut telling her to keep searching.

Said pet project had idled to a standstill. Jen had hit a wall searching for _Phil Atio_ (she snickered every time she had to type it into her notes, despite her annoyance). The previous owners of the gas station were long dead, and she'd heard nothing from the estates of any of the owners. She wasn’t really surprised. The addresses on the paperwork were sketchy at best, and the residents of Sandy Shores were notoriously mistrustful of the government. But no matter, she’d find something eventually.

The investigators had thus far turned up neither hide nor hair of whoever blew up the Lost MC’s trailer park and the O'Neils' house. The Aztecas had been quiet lately since they were still licking their wounds from the loss of Ortega, so their involvement was definitively off the table. She had reports that a Chinese business may have partnered with the O’Neils, but as the investigators couldn’t locate the remaining two of three brothers who hadn’t been in the house at the time of the explosion, they had no way to know. It seemed the investigators were simply going to have to wait until this newcomer meth business made a traceable misstep.

Still, rumor had it that the feds were talking about picking up the Blaine County investigation for themselves, so it could potentially be out of her hands in the near future. She’d be only too happy to hand it over to them. At its heart, the case was a drug case and thus not her forte. She’d only had to take the case herself due to the multitude of murders, which were likely all gang-related anyway. Again, not her area.

Unfortunately for Jen, on that day, the radio silence of the past two weeks from Haines and Norton came to an end. They didn’t darken her doorstep, but that was just as well. A phone call was grossly sufficient.

When her office phone rang, it was Mary on the line. “You’ve got a call from Dave Norton, Jen. Wanna take it?”

For the first time probably ever, Jen said, “Absolutely.”

Haines was an excellent tactician when it came to her moods. He only wanted Dave to do his dirty work when the purpose for the call required a softer edge and a delicate hand. To have Dave make this particular call, Haines must have been expecting Jen to be rude. He would not have been disappointed.

Dave’s voice crackled in plain as day. “Before you open your mouth-”

Jen cut him off. “I’m sending you and Haines the bill for my psychiatrist. And my mouthguard. Talking to you makes my mouth bleed, Dave.”

“Stop being dramatic,” Dave snapped, in his exhausted Dave way. He liked Jen, he really did, but she knew it, so she knew she could be mouthy with him. If he ever had to play babysitter for a government official again, he’d make sure it was one he didn’t like. “I didn’t know he wanted you to watch the show.”

“Bullshit.”

“If it makes you feel better, it wasn’t just because of the Vangelico thing.”

“So, Haines decided to psychologically scar me for shits and giggles?”

“No, he decided to psychologically scar you to keep you and Michael both in line.”

Jen fumed. “I haven’t done anything out of line!” 

Dave, in an effort to force her to stop being dramatic, tried his very best _we-know-what-you-did_ tactic. “Your warrants for the jewelry store are oddly specific, aren’t they?”

Ever the unstoppable force to the immovable object, Jen blew straight through his shaming tactics. “All of my warrants are oddly specific because cops like sticking their nose in where it doesn’t belong - _sound familiar?_ \- and I don’t like when my evidence gets thrown out because it was improperly seized.”

“While that may be true,” Dave replied, and indeed it was true, as she didn't do things in half-measures, “your involvement means that you’re just as much on the hook as your boyfriends are.”

“Any _alleged_ involvement doesn’t warrant me being forced to watch Trevor Philips torture a man so that you and Haines can measure your dicks against the IAA. All so you bastards can get more _funding_?”

Static crackled from the other side of the line as Dave shifted the phone to his other ear. His eardrums could only take so much abuse at once. Maybe it would have been better if he’d just stopped by her office for a visit, bearing the gift of coffee like a defeated mall Santa. “I told you years ago to stay away from Michael de Santa, and you didn’t listen. Now, he’s got you sucked into his cops-and-robbers daydream, just like the rest of us.”

“Kiss my ass.”

“In any case,” Dave remarked without acknowledging her, “I wasn’t calling about Mr. K. _You_ brought that up. The IAA sent word that they're increasing their presence in your office.”

“ _And_?”

“ _And_ if they think you’re not kissing enough ass, they’re going to officially launch an election fraud investigation.”

“Then you better get some interns down here to monitor what they're doing to my files,” Jen said. “I’m already taking work home every night, Dave. I can’t hover around behind every IAA agent that walks in here.”

“We’ll take care of it,” Dave assured. “Just do your job and keep your head down.”

“What have I been doing all these years?”

“The exact opposite of that,” Dave replied simply. “Steve and I will make an office visit later this week. You can yell at him then.”

Jen hung up without a goodbye. Dave usually didn’t inspire the need to chug a stiff drink after taking one of his calls, but she could do with a finger of gin right now. If Haines and Dave had been doing the task they were assigned, the IAA would have already given up and they wouldn’t have to babysit her anymore anyway. They should have long negotiated an end to this nonsense - negotiated _something_.

But Haines and Dave - particularly Haines - saw her as an opportunity underneath the general consensus that she was a nuisance. They were going to string her along as far as they could, which meant she was stuck doing whatever they wanted her to do. This song and dance was an old routine dating back long before the Vangelico job. The FIB was keeping her in office, right? And keeping the IAA out of her business, right? And now they were keeping her out of jail, right? So, she could do them some favors, _right_?

It would be so easy to blame this ordeal on Michael, to blame him for sticking his nose into her business. At the end of the day, she knew she had no one to blame but herself. Maybe Dave was right - maybe she should have taken his advice and run the other way from Michael de Santa. But then, she also could have told Michael no dice that day at Natalia’s and just looked the other way while he and his buddies robbed the store. She _could_ have, but she _hadn’t_. And why was that? Because it was damn near enthralling to play this cops-and-robbers game, and she’d been paid off by Lester, and she really liked Michael de fuckin' Santa.

Instead of sifting through more reports or heading down to the precinct to take more statements, she shoved the Blaine County files off to the side and pulled another case from her stack. She'd lose her mind if she had to stare at that shit any longer. 

She’d been working on this particular case for two years with a similar amount of frustration: one suspect, no leads, no witnesses. It would be up on the trial calendar next week and likely slated to go next term, so she needed to put some time into prepping it. Suspected serial killer, on account of the interconnecting web of victims who were _just_ different enough to avoid waving a red flag, but _just_ similar enough to draw connections anyway. All the victims had been found with certain marks etched into their skin, bound up in roughly the same positions. 

This case was full of patterns and loops that would keep her in trial for several days, teasing out the evidence and establishing a timeline to an overboard jury of people who didn’t give a fuck what _probable cause_ or _premeditated murder_ actually meant. Honestly, it was high time she teased out that timeline for herself. The events and order of the victims’ deaths was a convoluted mess, so she’d have to outline a graph to keep them in order. Additionally, the crime scene photos were particularly heinous, maybe even enough to give Trevor a nightmare or two. It would be a battle of shock value versus admissibility to win this one.

Jen read for so long, sipping coffee all the while, that her eye twitched and her brain felt like jelly in a jar. She'd worried a cut on the inside of her cheek to the point that she tasted the all-to-familiar tinge of iron in her mouth. She’d delved so deep into the file that when her phone rang again, she nearly knocked over her coffee. She grabbed her cell phone and prayed it wasn’t Haines calling to bother her.

It wasn’t Haines.

"Frank," Jen said, relief flooding her voice. "What's up?"

Franklin sounded far away, like his connection was bad. "You know how you said if there was a problem, you'd look into it?"

"What's going on?"

"It's not me - Trevor and Lamar got picked up,” Franklin replied. Static, and an odd clicking sound. “I don’t want to say too much over the phone.”

"I'll go take care of it. Head to the jail. Don’t go in - just keep the car running."

Jen hung up and shoved her phone in her pocket. Looks like she’d be taking a walk before she left for the day. Some air would do her good - taking out her frustrations on someone else would do her even better. She grabbed her suit jacket to make herself look totally official. It wouldn’t do to walk into the jail in anything less than full armor.

* * *

Jen had an appointment with the jail director before she’d even reached the front stairs of the Los Santos County clink. He owed her a favor for getting the shoplifting charges against his son dropped, so he’d taken an hour out of his day specially for her. In fact, if Jen reminded him gently enough, he should be more than happy to release two would-be inmates out into the world for her. His son had picked up a manslaughter charge for drunk driving a couple weeks ago, and manslaughter fell squarely into her stack of cases.

The director was an older man, mightily grizzled, with a graying buzz cut and sun damage. He ushered her into his office upon arrival, marching back to his desk after closing the office door cryptkeeper-style behind her. “Miss Dixon. Another long day at the office?”

“Aren’t they all?” Jen sat down in one of his office chairs. He’d decorated it with motivational posters of the _you-can-change-your-life_ variety. “So, what happened this morning?”

“Right to the point, as usual.” The director sat down behind his desk, regarding her with an even stare. The whites of his eyes were yellowed, a little bloodshot, as if he hadn’t slept well. “Buyer’s remorse situation down in Strawberry. Officers picked up a bunch of Ballas, what looks like a Families guy, and some old redneck.”

Ha, some old redneck. She'd file that one away for later when she needed a laugh.

Jen nodded, tugging at her jacket sleeves. “Right - about that. Two of those boys are mine.”

“In an official capacity?”

“You could say that.”

“Sheriff's department wasn’t notified of a controlled buy.”

She shrugged and crossed her legs. “This one was sensitive. No paperwork, very discreet. The sellers were jumpy and looking for a controlled buy.”

Despite any favor he may have owed her, the director wasn’t the type of man to just release people willy-nilly. He didn’t like drug dealers, he didn’t like shoplifters, and he sure as hell didn’t like snitches. But Jen was Jen, and Jen had done him a real favor, and Jen would be doing him another real favor next week when he son was scheduled to be arraigned.

He sighed. “Which ones are yours, then?”

She smiled sweetly. “Trevor Philips and Lamar Davis. A couple of problem children - mid-level types, a little unruly.”

“We picked them up in separate alleyways a mile from the other.”

“Self-preservation instincts drive people in different directions.”

“Right, well, I’ll get the paperwork going and release them to you. Should be about an hour, if they haven’t finished booking them.”

“Perfect.”

Jen waited for them in the front lobby for a little less than an hour. She’d wedged herself into a little corner chair away from most of the populace so she could observe. People-watching in the jail lobby was a real eye-opener. Kind of a heartbreaker, too. A lot of people were left waiting hours to talk to loved ones through a sheet of glass, calling for rides and fighting with the staff to get their belongings back.

Finally, Trevor and Lamar were released and sent packing through the bolted visitation area door, both looking a right sight happier than they should have considering they’d been cooped up in the jail for the last two hours. Before either one had the chance to say anything, Jen shook her head at them and told them to keep quiet until they were out of earshot.

Franklin’s car idled at the roundabout leading to the front steps. She directed Lamar to go with Franklin. 

She liked Lamar. He responded brightly, “Yes, ma'am, boss lady!”

Jen looked back over her shoulder. “Trevor, you come with me since you're in my neck of the woods. You and Lamar don't need to be seen together for a while.”

She led them out to Franklin’s car, then stuck her head into the driver-side window. “Get up to Vinewood, make sure you’re not seen. Meet me outside of Pitchers at ten tonight. I want an explanation.”

Franklin promised to meet her on time and drove off with Lamar in tow. She could hear yelling even as they drove off.

Jen had parked in her designated spot at the courthouse that morning, which was a short walk back from the jail. Jen wasn’t short, but Trevor’s legs were much longer than hers and his stride equaled about three of her steps. She had to keep bothering him to slow down so she could keep up. She waved him over to her car, and he climbed in, looking pleased as punch.

“Thanks for doing us a solid,” he said, easing his seat back and stretching out. His shirt rode up when he stretched, revealing pale skin and those lines tapering down under his waistband that made her brain go numb. He’d eschewed the usual grubby white t-shirt for a Love Fist shirt and a flannel. She intentionally ignored the crust of blood caking in spots. “You, uh, do this often?”

Jen backed out of her parking spot, doing her best to remain nonchalant so he wouldn’t figure out she’d caught a decent eyeful. She shouldn’t have been looking anyway, she reminded herself. “Do what often?”

“Get _involved_?”

Jen rolled her eyes. Traffic was bad - that would keep her preoccupied. “It’s not like I broke you out of the jail cell.”

“How’d you do it?”

“Warden owed me a favor. Several favors, in fact.”

Trevor raised his dark eyebrows, tone salacious. “What kind of _favors_?”

“You’re disgusting,” Jen replied. She laid on the horn when the car in front of her didn’t move fast enough through a green light. “His son’s been in a bad way for a long time. Just trying to ease the man’s stress - and if it helps me, all the better for it.”

“An eye for business,” Trevor commended. He’d shifted so that he faced her, one leg tucked under the other, arms behind his head. She resisted the urge to snap at him to get his feet out of her seat. “You’d do well in my line of work, sweetheart.”

He said _sweetheart_ like he was chewing on every syllable. She focused on the rush-hour traffic.

“What line of work would that be?”

“What do you think it is?”

“I cannot not begin to fathom what you get up to during the day.”

"Your entire caseload could be dedicated to me."

“I’m sure your criminal history goes back far enough to make my eye twitch.”

“Oh, it’s _long_ , I can promise you that,” Trevor replied, grinning.

She looked over to find him regarding her with his self-satisfied smirk. She didn't dare look anywhere but his face (even though the sleeves of his flannel had been rolled up over his forearms). She could smack him, but she got the vibe he’d like it. Eh, that was reason enough to do it.

"Cool it, darlin'."

“I bet your rap sheet isn’t as shiny and clean as you want people to think.” He leaned over the center console, close enough to see that he had flecks of gold in his brown eyes. “What’s stopping you from taking a real walk on the wild side, hm? Being really, really _bad_?”

"Health insurance and retirement benefits."

Trevor snorted, leaning back into his lounging position. The visible forearms were starting to get to her, though she could tracks near one of the visible, looping veins. "One job with me, and you'll wonder why you bothered with this white collar shit for so long."

"Have you considered that maybe I _like_ my job?"

"Yeah, maybe,” he said, “but that’s not really you, is it? Sitting in an office all day, sipping coffee, standing around the water cooler - it’s _stifling_. You're one of us underneath that suit. Isn't that why you jumped at the chance to help with that jewelry store job? 

"Michael told you about that?"

"Oh, yeah! You'd have to be one of us to run around with that fat snake anyway,” he said. “In fact, I think you _like_ being a little bad."

"You'd like for me to say yes, wouldn't you?"

"All night long, baby."

They’d pulled up at the address he’d given her. The greige building was the same cookie-cutter condo as the rest of the residences lining the street - the same kind of condo lining most of this part of Vespucci Beach. There was a black truck parked under the garage, but Trevor’s red beast of a machine was nowhere to be seen. There was no way this was his place - couldn’t be. His Lost Santos home-away-from-home couldn't be a lackluster _condo_.

She unlocked the door - his prompt to exit the vehicle. "I think this is your stop."

He ducked his head back in before slamming her car door, still with his same self-satisfied smirk. "I'll see you tonight, _princess_."

* * *

Pitchers was a little too lively tonight to fit Jen’s mood. Any other night and she’d probably be having a blast. The music was pounding, the dance floor was crowded with people grinding on each other, and the best bartender the club employed was pouring drinks that tasted like rocket fuel. It was a damn near perfect night to grab a couple of friends and get completely plastered, then wrap things up at Burger Shot around 3AM. It would be so easy to call Mary Ann or Gracie - maybe even Antonia - to meet her here for a much-needed night out. But she was just too _tired_

As ten p.m. drew near, Jen tipped back her second drink and finished it off before the burn even hit her. She’d been talking to the girl next to her - a statuesque brunette - for half an hour to kill time. The girl was sweet; she’d bought Jen a couple of drinks and had been rattling on about her new modeling contract for nearly half an hour. Jen excused herself and left, grabbing the girl’s number almost as an afterthought. The boys should be outside by now. 

Punctual as ever. Franklin’s car idled next to the front door, the shimmering, frosty white gleaming pink and blue under the strobing neon lights. Franklin was on his phone, looking more than a little perturbed. Trevor lounged in the backseat with his feet up in the seat, which was probably what Franklin was a little pissed about (Trevor’s boots were caked with mud from who-knows-where).

Jen ducked into the passenger’s seat and kicked off her heels, stretching her legs to work out the cramps. If they were going to take a ride, she was going to be comfortable while she listened to them explain. She tugged the hem of her dress down, for all the good that did; it was too short for it to really matter. As soon as she’d shifted comfortably, she felt Trevor’s presence right next to her ear.

“Who’d you get dressed up for, gorgeous?” he asked, his voice reverberating in her ear. He didn’t smell like blood and meth, surprisingly. “Couldn’t have been for us?”

The low purr struck a cord down deep in her brain, down in the little reptilian area that likes to ignore common sense and good judgment. Bad, bad, _bad_. She silently wished for someone to swat her with a newspaper, spray her with a fire hose - keep her away from Trevor fuckin' Philips. “Pitchers has a dress code.”

Franklin, who already looked like he’d had more than enough of Trevor for the night, sighed. “Man, don’t even go there. Michael would kill you.”

“Can I not complement our associate, Franklin?”

Jen chose to ignore both of them. “One of you explain what happened today.”

Franklin pulled out into the street, skirting around traffic like a pro. Vinewood at night looked like a constant rave, a never-ending party filled with hallucinogenics and bad choices. The late-night neon signs and strobe lights kicking off from the bars illuminated the strip in an alternating rainbow. The sidewalks and crosswalks were already filled with stumbling drunks and people swaying with drinks in their hands.

“Lamar set up a busted deal,” Franklin explained. “Trevor wanted a taste of the other side of the brick.”

“Fuckin’ amateurs,” Trevor boasted. “Drywall’s the oldest trick in the book.”

“We didn’t buy, so they started shooting,” Franklin continued. “We split up. I got away, and the cops managed to pick them up.”

Jen breathed a sigh of relief that she wouldn't have to deal with this case. “Fantastic.”

They lapsed into comfortable silence long enough for Jen to check her phone. There were two missed calls from Michael lighting up her screen, both timestamped to when she’d been chatting up the girl at Pitchers. He didn’t usually call this late, especially on a Friday night. She shushed the boys so she could call him back.

Michael answered halfway through the first ring. “Are you at your place?”

The volume was loud enough for the three of them to hear with the radio turned off. Franklin glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Trevor, on the other hand, had his ear pressed to the other side of the phone, face dangerously close to hers.

“No, but I can be.”

Michael's answering voice was despondent, a little venomous, but altogether exhausted. “Amanda left.”

“Shit, Mike.” She paused and sighed, trading looks with Franklin. Trevor had pulled back away from the phone; he didn’t seem that concerned. “Okay, I’ll be there in a few minutes. I’ve got some friends in tow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to say, the smut in the next two chapters is *chef's kiss* my magnum opus.


	8. Strangers & Freaks // Michael

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lady doth protest to much, and by that I mean, you can have as much sex as you want but sex won't replace your feelings. Let's do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What happens when two people don't like to address their feelings and just have sex instead? This whole fuckin' story.
> 
> This was supposed to be part of the last chapter, but it would have capped out over 10k words and my eyes start crossing after about 4k. Hence, what we have here.

Michael stood in the doorway of Jen's apartment looking for all the world like he couldn't remember how he got there. He'd managed to find his way to her place in the haze of confusion clouding his brain, though he couldn't say how much of the brain fog was the leftover effects of the ketamine concoction Jimmy had slipped him the afternoon before. He was almost too dumbfounded to function, as if he still couldn't quite believe what was happening, though he’d found the note Amanda left on his kitchen counter only that morning.

And what had he done all day? He'd found the note, sat around, tried to figure out what the next step would be. Did he try to contact her anyway, despite the explicit instruction not to? Did he call his own lawyer? Rather than do anything characteristically rash, he'd sat on his couch and watched a movie. Once he'd sufficiently dissociated, he'd driven around Los Santos (in Amanda's old car that never got used anymore), looking for anything to do to take his mind off things. He was the proud owner of two new suits, a new watch, a stomachache from Cluckin' Bell, and not a single one of those things had done anything to abate the slowly deepening hole in the pit of his stomach.

Jen watched him carefully, waiting for him to say something. Franklin and Trevor hovered behind her, content to let her deal with Sad Michael for the time being. He repeated his earlier words from the phone call with a shrug, looking almost bewildered. She took him by the shoulders and guided him towards the couch, closing the front door behind her.

"Shit, Michael, I'm so sorry," Jen said, grimacing. "Here, sit. I'm gonna get you a drink. Can you tell us what happened?" 

As much as Jen hated seeing Michael in pain, she couldn't say she had a lot of sympathy. Neither Michael nor Amanda were saints, but Jen had to admit that the bank robbing, the long-term girlfriend-on-the-side, the temper issues, and the propensity towards getting shot at probably beat compulsive cheating this round. There were better ways to handle this, of course, but Amanda was just as irrational as Michael, and there was no way their marital issues as of late could have done anything other than explode. It amazed her they'd put up with each other for as long as they had, but getting divorced in Witness Protection was damn near impossible and extremely expensive.

"I fucked up," he said, staring at the wall in front of him. He obviously wanted to get his feelings off his chest though, in his own emotionally stunted, _macho-1980's-dad_ kind of way. "I mean, she's left before, but never like this. This time it feels… different."

"Different how?" Jen asked. She rummaged through her fridge and thought about just grabbing him a beer, but he was a scotch man, so she poured two fingers in a short glass for him. 

"She said she never should have left North Yankton to come here," Michael replied, taking a sip of his drink. "She told me she was talking to a lawyer. She's never gone that far."

Jen poured herself a glass of wine and sat down in the recliner in front of him. He was dressed like he always was in his sharp suit and tie, but that did nothing to dissipate the tired cast to his face. This was the cast of a broken man, staring at the drink in his hand as if this was some kind of final straw. She was surprised that he was more distraught than angry. Perhaps anger had been the brunt of his day, and he’d graduated from angry to melancholy, as he was wont to do.

"We've been married twenty years," he said, hunching over his drink like it was the last thing keeping him tethered to the present. 

Michael needed space more than anything else, but Michael did not often choose what he needed over what he wanted. There to help him make that decision were Trevor and Franklin. Franklin looked as though he’d rather be anywhere else, but Trevor, well, looked like he’d cooked up a plan.

“You need something to take your mind off of all this.” Trevor said, taking a seat next to Michael. He wrapped his arm around Michael’s shoulders. Michael pulled a face like he’d rather be dead than anywhere near Trevor. “You know what you need?”

“What do I need, Trevor?”

The sheer venom in Michael’s voice did not go unnoticed, but was resolutely ignored. Trevor shook him, much to his displeasure. “Strippers and a stiff drink, my friend. Frank n’ I are taking you to the Vanilla Unicorn tonight.”

“I just want to sit here and drink until I drown in self-pity. You three can be here to watch or not.”

At this point, Franklin figured he needed to assert his usual place as the voice of reason, as these two were about as irrational as men could get and Jen was obviously not sympathetic. He took a seat next to Michael on his opposite side. “Look, we’re not gonna leave you moping on the couch. You can't expect your girlfriend to clean up your marital problems.”

Jen had to agree. It wasn’t that she couldn’t help, it was just that, well, she was kind of part of the problem. “Let the guys take you to the Unicorn and show you a good time, Mike. It's just a short-term solution to a long-term problem. It’ll take your mind off things for the night.”

“The lady speaks the truth,” Trevor said, needling him in the side. “C’mon, you won’t even remember Amanda’s name after you snort enough coke off a stripper’s ass.”

“I don’t do that anymore, T.”

“Well, ya might feel better if ya did.”

Sensing a brewing fight, Jen took the initiative. “I think Trevor's got a point. I mean, not the coke part, but just go have fun. We’ll talk it out tomorrow when you’ve let off a little steam.”

"I'm calling a cab," Franklin said, ushering both men to the door. "Ain't nobody driving home tonight."

Franklin herded the boys outside, promising Jen to call her if things got out of hand. She waved them off, making them promise to have a good time. Michael might think going out wouldn't solve anything, but Jen was willing to bet he'd be having the time of his life as soon as he walked into the club.

* * *

A slow beat thudded through the Vanilla Unicorn, punctuated by pulsating strobe lights and the low din of catcalls. It was just as crowded as it always was on Friday nights, full of college kids and blue collar guys and corporate shakers. A few girls worked the room while the others danced on stage.

Michael and Franklin were both regulars, and Trevor was well on his way to joining that club. The dancers knew them by name, drink order, and how much they'd be willing to spend for the night. Franklin was here so often that he had a pet name; one of the girls referred to him as Baby F, though only in his ear where the others couldn't hear. Hell, they knew Michael well enough to ask why Jen wasn't with them.

The stack of empty drinks glasses on their table was damn near atrocious, and as of midnight, they showed no sign of stopping anytime soon. Franklin had been called to the back by his usual dancer to do whatever it was they planned on doing (there had to be some reason Sapphire called him Baby F). Trevor had attached himself to a girl with enough tattoos to put them all to shame. He'd gotten a little clingy over the course of the night (as he usually was with girls he liked), but she didn't seem to mind. The stack of cash he'd left on the table probably helped with that, but the affection seemed genuine enough.

Michael, at the behest of Trevor and Franklin, had gone through the rounds of most of the dancers. He'd leave the coke-snorting for Trevor, but he'd done enough body shots in the past two hours to put him at a serious risk of blacking out. His favorite dancer, Juliet, had been the one to ask about Jen. He suspected Juliet liked Jen more than she liked him (yeah, she liked him, too), but she was always more than happy to do whatever Michael asked. 

By the time Michael was ready to leave, he and Franklin had lost Trevor entirely (the tattooed dancer was missing too, so there was probably a connection there). Franklin was more than ready to go, having already spent well past his limit for the night. Michael was in much the same if not worse situation, so as 1:30AM drew near, they paid their bar tabs for the night.

Franklin called them a cab and went to hunt down Trevor. Michael waited by the front door, smoking a cigarette and watching patrons start to leave. Standing had become a challenge, and by the time Franklin emerged with Trevor in tow, he'd had to press his back against the wall of the club to stay upright.

Franklin poured Trevor into one cab and ordered the driver to take him to his address in Vespucci Beach and nowhere else. It wouldn't do to have him running around Los Santos in the state he was in. He loaded himself and Michael into the other and gave him his address; Michael definitely didn't need to be by himself for the night.

Michael groaned, the rolling motion of the cab making his stomach turn. "I can't sleep on your couch, F. Make him take me to Jen's."

"Man, you look like you got mugged by the dancers. You show up at her place, you won't get anywhere near that bed."

"Then I'll sleep on the fuckin' floor," he moaned. "Just - I'll be able to sleep there."

"Blacking out ain't sleepin’."

"Hey, she was all for this little outing, too," Michael said. He leaned against the window, thankful for the cold glass sending a shock through his system. "She won't care. And she likes strippers."

"Gonna be a trail of body glitter from the cab to whatever doghouse she puts you in."

Nevertheless, Franklin gave the driver Jen's address with the instruction to keep the car running when they got there. He didn't altogether believe she'd actually take Michael off his hands for the night, but he never could tell with her.

* * *

Jen had been watching reruns of _The Sopranos_ since the boys left, sipping on a drink and contemplating whether she should call the girl she’d met at Pitchers. She could at least have some company for herself while the boys went out on the town. Normally, she’d be more than happy to have a night out at the Unicorn with them, but she felt like this was more of a boys’ trip, so she happily sent them on their way.

Jen had tried to go to bed after they left. It had been a long day for multiple reasons, and a good nights’ sleep would be welcome. But she’d kept going over things in her head and came to the resounding conclusion that Amanda leaving was bad. She didn’t even really know how to comfort him. This was the kind of pervasive sadness that words couldn’t really ease. Distract, maybe. Offer a little bit of comfort, but not ease. Sleep never came, and after about half an hour, she’d resigned herself to the couch and her reruns.   
  
As the clock ticked by 2AM, she got a knock on her front door. When she looked out the peephole, she found Franklin and Michael standing outside the door, though _standing_ was a questionable term. When she answered, Franklin hauled Michael across the threshold and into her apartment. Just the sight of them standing there, pervasively drunk and obviously coming down from the high of the night, made her just the tiniest bit jealous.

“Wouldn’t let us take him back to my house,” Franklin slurred, doing the absolute best he could to keep it together. Bless him. “Kept wanting to come back here.”

Under any other circumstance, Jen might have sent them both packing to Franklin’s place. As much as she liked both of them, she didn’t have the patience to take care of two hulking drunk dudes (where the hell was Trevor?). She was more of a danger to them than they were to themselves. This time, however, she’d clean Michael up and put him to bed for the night.

“I’ll take care of him,” Jen replied gently. She ducked under Michael’s arm, giving him something to lean on. This, invariably, was a mistake, since he was 6’2” and 240 pounds of drunken dead weight. “F, how are you getting home?”

“Got one of my drivers waiting out front.” He leaned against her doorway, obviously getting less coherent as time ticked by. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Make sure you do, especially if you’re by yourself. If you don’t, I’m coming to check on you.”

“Trevor - _fuck_ , it feels like I got roofied - said he’d call you, too.”

“Wonderful,” Jen replied, shaking her head. “Get home safe, Franklin.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout me - you take care of _that_.”

Jen led Michael to her bedroom, nearly dragging him along. _Fuck_ , he was a big guy. Like, she _knew_ that, but there was a significant difference between dragging him along when he was mostly sober and dragging him along when he could barely stand. She ordered him to stay as still as possible so that she could strip him down to his underwear, then coaxed him gently to bed, amazed that he’d done everything she asked without question. She grabbed her pillow and a blanket and was just about to go back to the couch in the front room when he called her name. 

“Babe?” His slurred voice came out as a tired croak. “Jen?”

She paused at the door, contemplating whether she should answer. She could shut the door gently and he’d be none the wiser. Yeah, he might roll out of bed trying to look for her, but it wouldn’t hurt him that much. “Yeah?”

“Don’t go, please.”

Jen sighed, cursing her stupid aching heart. “Scoot over, then.”

He did his best to shimmy out of the way to make enough room for her. She crawled into bed and leaned back against the headboard, resting on her pillow. He curled up at her side, tucked himself up under her arm, and settled his head into her lap, well on his way to absolute incoherence. His hands snaked under her thighs as he hugged her to him, solidifying her new position as a human teddy bear. He was a little green around the edges, but he didn’t seem to be in danger of throwing up. In an effort to keep him grounded, she ran her fingers through his hair, nails dragging lightly along his scalp.

His head came to rest on her stomach, and he managed to sort-of look up at her before scrunching his eyes shut. The world was probably a little wobbly. His telltale groan told her as much. “I’m an idiot.”

“You had fun, though.”

“Shouldn’t’ve done all those body shots.”

That didn’t sound good. “Probably not, no.”

Michael was silent for so long that Jen thought he’d gone to sleep. Her hands had migrated down to his back where she rubbed slow circles into his shoulder blades. That was more than enough to get him to go to sleep. Hell, she couldn’t even rub his neck in the car without his eyes drooping. He wasn’t out yet, though.

“I’m sorry.”

Jen paused her a second, incredulous that he was still awake and not just talking in his sleep. But Michael de Santa doesn’t apologize when he’s coherent, much less when he’s asleep. “For what?”

“For dragging you into this.”

“Into what?”

He waved his hands before tucking them back around her legs. He groaned in displeasure again; he’d moved too quickly and set his stomach rolling. “This… whatever it is.”

“This... relationship?”

“No! I don’t know. All of it.”

Jen snorted. “That’s super clear.”

“I mean… I’m sorry... showed up here… it’s not your problem.”

“Michael, if being here brings you comfort, then don’t be sorry.”

“I just… Couldn’t stay in that house. Couldn’t go to F’s. You just… all I could think of… always you.”

Jen smoothed her hand across his forehead, effectively cutting him off. “Why don’t we talk about this once you sober up, okay? You need to sleep.”

Michael buried his face into her thigh, hugging her close. “Shoulda stayed here. Fuck that club.”

Jen kept carding through his hair until he finally started snoring. Once she was sure he was good and out, she extricated herself gently from his grip, pushed him over to his side, and burrowed down into her side of the bed so she could get comfortable. She’d give it a few minutes before she went back to the couch and her reruns - she wouldn’t be sleeping anyway.

* * *

Michael woke up feeling like he’d been hit by a truck, then backed over again a couple of times for good measure. He was definitely not in his own bed, and for a blind second, he was a little confused about whose bed he was in. After a few seconds of bleary consciousness, he figured it out. 

Once his eyes adjusted to the dark room, he saw the vague outline of all the things that made this room Jen's. The dark furniture, the dark curtains, the dark suits meticulously hung on the closet door (everything black, as always). Picture frames detailing every step of her life lined the walls in neat rows, though he couldn’t see the subjects in the barely lit room. He knew what the pictures were, though: graduation photos, pictures of friends from home he’d never met, a couple odd shots of family members. Shots of her at formals and functions and all those college things he’d never done, every photo of her decked out in her favorite color (black). The only thing missing from the room was Jen herself. 

He reached out, groping around for another warm body and found none. Her side of the bed was in complete disarray, so she'd at least slept there. For how long, he couldn’t say. He didn’t even know how long he’d been there.

The alarm clock on her nightstand read 6AM. He’d never stayed here overnight. Late, perhaps, but he’d never woken up in her bed before. And her bed was definitely comfortable, with the soft, dark sheets and the thick comforter. She had the expensive pillows, too - the ones that were supposed to be good for posture. It might have been nice if he’d been coherent enough to appreciate it, but at that moment, he couldn’t even remember how he’d gotten back here.

In fact, he didn’t remember much about yesterday other than waking up in the middle of the street (thanks, Jimmy) and finding the note from Amanda on his kitchen counter… 

Ah, there it was - all flooding back in a haze of confusion and alcohol. He’d called Jen, hoping she’d be home to offer… what, exactly? He didn’t know _what_ he’d been expecting by calling her. A comforting shoulder? A curt talking-to, trying to make sense of everything? A booty call? Yeah, what an asshole move that would have been. Not that it wasn’t an asshole move to expect her to pick up the pieces of him behind Amanda, because it was.

Michael certainly hadn’t been expecting her to procure Franklin and Trevor. How had that happened? He knew she hung out with Franklin every now and then - went to a movie or played darts when neither one of them had anything to do for the night. But Trevor… what despotic hole had she managed to drag him out of? Maybe he’d been with Franklin or something... However she’d conjured them up, he’d begun to vaguely recall Franklin and Trevor taking him to the Unicorn and plying him with alcohol until his brain turned to mush.

And then… what? Oh, yeah, the dancers. That wasn’t out of the ordinary. Girls were a surefire way to take his mind of whatever was wrong. He was pretty sure Trevor’d gotten a troupe of the dancers to give him lap dances and alcohol until he couldn’t see straight. Probably why he could still smell peach body oil even though he certainly hadn’t taken any of the dancers home.

And they’d obviously brought him back here. Had he asked to come back here? Or did they just refuse to leave him home alone? Maybe a little of both. Trevor would have left him dying under a table, but Franklin had the good sense not to leave someone alone to choke on their own vomit.

Whatever the case, he had to pee like a fucking racehorse.

Michael stumbled out of bed, tossing the sheets and pillows over to Jen’s unoccupied side. Whatever he’d put in his stomach was sloshing around, hollow and viscous and more than enough to make him heave. He might still be a little drunk. He needed to get to a toilet, like, _now_.

The bathroom was dark. He fumbled around for the light, relieving himself as soon as he could see the toilet. His face in the mirror was haggard, stubble coming out in a dark shadow. When was the last time he’d shaved? Bloodshot eyes, deep raccoon circles under them. What had even happened to his hair? It looked like a stripper got too handsy with him and fucked it all up. A fine dust of body glitter covered every surface he got too close to.

Jen really was a trooper for putting up with him when he looked like this.

He turned the light off and stumbled back out of the bathroom. The kitchen light peeked in under the bedroom door frame just enough to draw his attention. Shielding his eyes from the harsh light, he eased himself out into the cold kitchen, wishing he’d at least grabbed a shirt.

No Jen, as far as he could tell. He found a note on the counter, empty fear twisting through him, next to a bottle of aspirin and an empty glass.

**_Went for my morning run w/ Mary Ann. Back in a couple hours._ **

He sighed, shaking his head. Of course she’d gone for a run. She did that every morning. He _knew_ that. 

Michael filled the empty glass with water from the tap and threw down three aspirin. Bless her for leaving it out for him. Better get a jump on the impending hangover before it could really hit him full force. He left the kitchen light on and stumbled back to bed, wrapping up in blankets and wishing she was already back.

The next time Michael regained tenuous consciousness, it was almost noon. The aspirin had helped his hangover go from _rolled-by-a-front-end-loader_ to _tapped-gently-by-a-Prius_. He was coherent enough this time to grab his shirt off the floor, but after discovering it was covered in glitter and lipstick and smelled like peach body oil, he made the executive decision to leave it on the floor where it was. He then made the executive decision to take a shower and scrub all the glitter out of his hair before he thought about emerging from his hangover cave.

Michael found Jen after he’d taken a shower and tracked down the change of clothes he left for emergencies. She sat at her desk behind her computer, rubbing her temples and all but chugging coffee. She’d almost disappeared behind the stack of files on her desk - files Michael would have rather died than tried to decipher. She looked up as he walked in, a tiny half-smile on her face at his disheveled (but clean!) state. Michael liked to look sharp all the time; it was nice to see him dissolute for once, despite the fact he was obviously not firing on all cylinders yet.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Jen teased. “Rough night?”

“I’d tell ya about it, but I don’t really remember what happened,” he yawned, wincing at the light. “What time did I get here?”

“2AM-ish. Franklin dumped you on my doorstep.”

“He’s a good kid, Franklin.”

Jen reset her focus to the stack of papers in front of her. “He said you asked to come back here.”

“Good place to be,” Michael replied, shrugging. He wished with every movement that he hadn’t fucking moved. “Are you working right now? It’s Saturday.”

“I’m an attorney, remember? No rest for the wicked.” Jen said. “Besides, I gotta keep you out of trouble somehow.”

“Where were you when I was in trouble last night, then?”

“Right here on my couch, watching reruns of _The Sopranos_ ,” she smirked. She tipped her head towards the kitchen. “Coffee’s in the pot. It’ll probably help the hangover.”

Michael poured himself a cup of coffee and laid down on the couch. No, it wasn’t the worst hangover he’d ever had, especially not after the aspirin and coffee. Hangovers were old hat for him since he was an incorrigible day drinker. He was just complaining to complain, which Jen very well knew. Didn’t mean it felt good, though.

He sat his coffee cup down and watched her work for a while, content to trudge through his hangover with a nice view. He’d never noticed how much she fidgeted. Had he ever seen her fidget like that before? Probably, but he hadn’t noticed. Her nose crinkled up whenever she read something she didn’t like. She fidgeted with her pen, with the edge of her files, with anything in arms reach. She sipped her coffee, nudged her glasses up her nose, tapped away at her computer.

He’d never seen her wear glasses before, but then, he’d never been here on a Saturday morning before. And she must have taken a shower not long before him, since her wild orange hair was still a little damp (he’d have to have been out cold to have missed that). Brown eyes, ringed by thick eyelashes, glared at the report in her hand with half-assed exasperation. No makeup, so he could see every freckle unobscured. He was pretty sure she wore an old undershirt he’d left here (black, of course) and one of her many pairs of workout shorts (again, black), though he couldn’t see under her desk. 

Jen looked up at him when she finally felt him watching, that tiny half-smile playing on her _pinkpinkpink_ lips. “Stop staring, you look like a tourist at the zoo.”

He grinned but didn’t respond, and he definitely kept staring. He’d seen her in suits, in short dresses and tall heels, in her athleisure getups, in lingerie he bought her - but not this. He _really_ wasn’t used to seeing her undone like this - wild hair, clothes thrown on as an afterthought, the tense energy she always carried underneath the practiced calm completely gone. Affection pooled down in his gut and jumped right up to his throat.

It finally hit him. This was relaxation for her - working at her own pace, drinking her coffee, nowhere important to be. This was a normal Saturday morning in every way for her, with the exception of his presence in her home. 

Maybe that’s why he’d wanted to come back here - what he found so appealing about her home. The quiet normalcy. The relaxed calm. Here, there was no yelling, no walking on eggshells around his own wife, no running home to an empty house where no one missed him anyway. He could sit there on her couch, drink his coffee, and suffer through his (getting milder) hangover in relative comfort. This was the kind of morning-after that he didn’t even know he missed.

Of course he’d wanted to come back here last night. He’d wanted to come home to someone who didn’t speak to him with condescension and outright spite. Of course he’d wanted to come home to someone who thought he was funny, who watched his dusty old movies with him, who actually enjoyed his presence.

“Hey.”

She looked up again and shoved her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Yeah?”

Why the hell had even agreed to let Trevor and Franklin take him out last night? Three different dancers gave him a lapdance (oh, yeah, it was all coming back to him now). He drank _Trevor_ under the table, just left his old buddy to be cleaned up by one of the dancers who definitely seemed like she was used to it. _Trevor_ , whose liver was probably a public health hazard at this point in his life. Franklin definitely took some unflattering pictures of him - probably sent them to Lester for shits and giggles.

“Come here.”

Jen got up without a hint of sass - _no pants_ , his great triumph of the day - and walked over to him, treading carefully across the cold hardwood floor. It seemed almost like a dance, the muscles in her legs cording and shifting with each movement. That was definitely his shirt. She wasn’t a small girl, all muscle and soft curves, but he was a big guy, so it hung across her frame like a dress. 

He pulled her down into his lap, hands sliding up under the back of her shirt (his shirt). His lips found her throat, tongue digging gently into the spot under her jaw that made her sigh. She balanced herself by pressing her hands against his chest, sliding them down to his stomach, then back up to wrap her arms around his neck. Her lips were soft when he caught them with his own.

Why had he left her apartment when her lips felt so good against his? When her skin was so smooth and smelled like that perfume he'd bought her? When her curves were so soft and made his brain turn to mush? When her breasts were heavy in his hands, nipples taught and tight under the pad of his thumb? When her ass fit into his lap like she was made for him, like this was the only place she ever needed to be? _And and and_ …

He couldn’t quite pin down when they’d shut her bedroom door behind them. His head was mushy and hazy, led only by an intense need. He was drowning in her scent, in her voice, in her body underneath him.

Michael wrapped his hand around the nape of her neck, keeping her head up and her mouth against his. Not in her hair, he reminded himself. No hair pulling. His hands were up under her shirt, trailing up her stomach, palming her breast, thumbing her nipples. Anything he could touch, anything he could feel, he needed right then and there. 

Her hands ran up his biceps, his shoulder, his back, all the way down to his sides. She squeezed his hips before brushing his stomach, his chest, his face. She repeated that cycle over and over again, sighing his name into his ear. She didn’t scratch him, didn’t dig her nails in, didn't order him to get on his back so she could climb all over him (not that he didn’t love all of that). She let him touch and taste, caress, tease - take control in a way that he couldn’t remember her ever really doing.

Somewhere in his hazy, mushy brain, it finally pinged that there were still clothes in the way. As much as he’d like to just whip his dick out and move her underwear over, his brain said no. For once, his body agreed with his brain. Shirt - gotta go. Underwear - should have already been gone. Boxers - useless and unnecessary. He couldn’t give less of a shit which corner of the room any of that had ended up in, whether it was under the bed or in her hamper. He just needed to feel as much of her against him as he could manage.

He hooked her legs over his shoulders, got down on his knees, and went to work. She was so slick and soft and smelled perfectly sweet. He dipped a finger into her entrance, then a second one, his tongue following behind in a languid circular pattern. Her hands burrowed into his hair, holding his head in place. He gripped her thighs, her sides, pressed his hand against her stomach. He was so hard it hurt, but he didn’t stop tonguing her clit until she came, until he got her to moan his name and make all those pretty sounds she was always so careful not to let him hear.

He barely gave her time to catch her breath before he was climbing up between her thighs, hoisting her legs around his waist, coaxing her to tilt her hips up for him. He dragged his knuckles down her stomach, down her slit, back up in the same slow cycle. With his other hand, he stroked himself, teasing her slit with the tip of his cock. She canted her hips up, begging without saying a word, for him to push inside. It was a slow stretch, she was so _tight_. 

She scrambled to pull him down onto her, and he happily obliged. Chest to chest, stomach to stomach, her legs wrapped around him, jointed at the mouth and unwilling to come up for air, he slid himself back out and pushed in, slow enough to be maddening. He didn’t pick up speed, even when she begged him to, just focused on the easy glide and soft skin and her scent and her voice in his ear calling his name.

She tightened around him, clenching down on his cock, which tipped him over that precarious edge to his own release. No fighting to last longer, no thinking about baseball or the best _don’t come yet_ naked grandma. He’d made her come twice and chased his own release, and it was more than satisfying to know that _he_ was the one making her come. Making her call _his_ name. Sucking bruises into her skin, spilling himself on her thighs, branding her as _his_.

Michael grabbed the edge of the sheets to clean her up, unwilling to walk away long enough to grab a washcloth from the bathroom. She was going to have to wash the sheets anyway - the thin dust of body glitter flashed in the dim light all over the sheets. He crawled up to rest against the headboard and hauled her into his lap, pressing his nose into her wild hair. If she'd stay like this for the rest of the day, her back pressed to his front, he'd be alright.

Why had he left with Trevor and Franklin when he could have been sleeping in her bed all night?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not enough smut for you? Just you wait.


	9. Main Mission // The Altruist Camp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's that sound? A poor imitation of a southern accent? Let's do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this chapter was WELL OVER 10k, so I split it into two chapters again. I also rewrote it about a thousand times before I was satisfied, hence the amount of time it took to post.
> 
> Anyway, here's Wonderwall.

**Los Santos County Courthouse, District Attorney’s Office - 24 Hours Prior to Crossing the Blaine County Line**

Haines finally made his first in-person appearance post-torture incident, and surprise surprise, didn’t take responsibility for anything he’d done. Instead, he sat his athleisure ass down on her office couch and proceeded to start running his mouth. She barely half-listened to what he was saying, determining it best for everyone that she concentrate on the brief in front of her.

He grabbed a pen from her desk and clicked it a couple of times before grabbing a writing pad, too. “Guess where you’re going tomorrow.”

Somewhere, in the back of her mind, was a flash of a half-remembered crime scene photo of a victim who’d had a pen jabbed through his eye. The crime scene had looked a little like her office.

“I’ll bite,” Jen replied. Carefully. Evenly. There were witnesses around. She forced herself to listen and not yank the pen out of his hands. “Where am I going?”

Haines tore two pieces of paper out of the writing pad. He'd doodled all over the first one - crude stickmen and vulgar cave paintings. The second one was a collection of useless reminders he'd written for her. “You’re going up to Sandy Shores to investigate the Altruist camp.”

“You do know I’m not an investigator, right?”

He cocked his head. “And your point is?”

That victim from the crime scene photos may have had blonde hair. Definitely the dimple-butt chin. Probably the athleisure wear, too. She might just be projecting her desire to stab him.

She sighed and took the second sheet of paper from him. It was covered in useless deadlines for the Lost investigation that didn't line up with her actual legal timeframe. “What am I looking for?”

"Oh, I don't know," Haines mocked with a shrug. "Maybe try all the hitchhiker murders? Gotta find who’s murdering them.”

“That's not really necessary. We already know it's the Altruists doing it, we just don’t know _how_.”

“Well, go figure it out. And look around for anything about the Lost investigation while you’re there.”

“You paying for travel expenses?”

“Keep your receipts.” Haines had already made his home on her couch, and he wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while. “And take your bank robber boyfriend’s psychotic boyfriend with you, too. He’s, uh, _familiar_ with them.”

“Fine.” Jen eyed his dusty shoes, which were perched precariously on the armrest of her couch. It might be good to have some company on the trip. "But if you're gonna stay here, get your fuckin' feet off my couch."

* * *

**Jen’s Apartment, Vespucci Beach - 12 Hours Prior to Crossing the Blaine County Line**

Jen’s didn’t usually ring this late at night, and normally she would ignore whoever it was, but the number on the face of her cell phone was different than usual. She swiped the screen to answer.

“Trevor? What’s up?”

Jen heard a short, breathy groan and was just about to end the call when he replied. “Don’t hang up.”

“You never call me - what’s up? Did something happen or-” Jen started, but stopped to listen instead. She heard soft, muted wet sounds just far enough away from the phone’s speaker to be intelligible. “Wait, are you jacking off? Seriously?”

He made the same shorty, breathy huff. “Just- just humor me, okay? Don’t hang up.”

Jen rolled her eyes. “Why are you calling me? Don’t you have some shut-in fuck-buddy up near a lighthouse to stick your dick in?”

“Come on, sugar. Please? I just- I like your voice.”

She huffed in response. “I’m not gonna be doing a lot of talking, but I’ll leave it on speaker. Do what you have to do.”

Jen left the phone on the upper lip couch and went back to watching TV. Weazel News was doing a special over the Vangelico’s robbery, and she almost laughed at the clip of the guy repeating Michael’s stale movie line over and over. Trevor continued to breathe and moan into the mouthpiece. She tuned in every minute or so to listen and went back to the TV, but it was getting a little difficult to turn back into the news.

After about five minutes, Jen began to actively listen. She was kind of impressed that he kept it going for the last five minutes; he’d sounded pretty worked up already when she first answered. Contrary to his loud, abrasive nature, his moans and groans were softer, lower, almost a little vulnerable. 

Her lower abdomen started to burn - a sluggish, hot build below her navel. Jen figured she could just ignore it until he’d finished. She could take care of herself later, maybe call Michael to see if he was up for it.

Ugh, but that _voice_. Good Lord, that voice had so much _potential_. It wouldn’t hurt to just… lay back and enjoy. Jen could compartmentalize the man from the voice. Trevor’s dirty, disheveled, angry face from these soft, low, _vulnerable_ moans. Wouldn’t hurt a bit. Might feel pretty good, actually. She didn’t have to make a noise or play along or anything. Besides, a little mutual voyeurism wasn’t a bad thing.

Jen stretched out on the couch completely and placed the phone next to her head on the pillow. She slipped one hand under her shirt and one under the waistband of her underwear. Her nipples had prickled up since she’d been listing; she circled one with the tip of her finger, just enough to make herself squirm. With her other hand, she slid a finger down the line of her clit to find she was already pretty worked up. Apparently she’d been paying more attention to Trevor’s voice over the duration of the phone call than she’d realized.

She slid a finger inside, then two, trying to match the cadence of his moans to the thrust of her hand. He was as erratic jacking off as he was in pretty much every facet of life, so she finally just had to set her own rhythm. The pad of her middle finger hit that _something_ inside of her at just about the same time that Trevor made a particularly sharp groan, and she couldn’t stop herself in time to cut off the soft whimper that spilled out of her mouth.

No one else would have heard that whimper. No one else would have been listening closely enough in the middle of jacking off to have heard it. It was so soft that she hardly heard it herself. Trevor’s moans came to an abrupt stop.

“What was that?” he asked, voice strained.

“Just the TV,” Jen replied, praying that her voice was even enough to be believable.

“That was way too close to be the TV unless it’s in your lap,” he replied, voice cracking. “Are you-,” another sharp groan, “are you touching yourself?”

“I’m watching porn.” Because that was apparently less embarrassing than just admitting that she was fingering herself while listening to his voice. Much, much less embarrassing.

“If you’re touching yourself, just tell me,” Trevor pleaded. The sloppy wet sounds started again, faster this time. His voice was getting rougher, more heated. "Please, _please_ just tell me if you are."

“Fine, yeah, I’m touching myself,” Jen replied, getting back to work. It wouldn't hurt to tease him a little… He was such an easy target. She pressed her thumb down against her clit and hissed at the burn, making sure he could hear her that time. “All for you, Trevor.”

“Fuck,” he snapped, the force of his groans vibrating the phone. He wasn’t so far gone that he could resist teasing her in turn. “Couldn’t resist, huh? Ol’ Uncle T gotcha going?”

“I’ll stop and hang up the phone if you tease me, so I suggest that you don’t.”

“Your wish, my command.” Trevor moaned again, louder this time and a little more broken. “Oh, I’d fuck your goddamn brains out if you were here.”

“You assume I’d let you,” Jen replied, letting out a softer, breathless sigh. She pumped her wrist, pinching and pulling at her nipples until they edged the line of soreness, picturing, wishing, that it wasn’t her own fingers doing it.

Picturing that it was Trevor's fingers, with all the calluses, pinching and pulling and rolling. That it was his hands, scarred and tattooed with nonsensical little symbols, sliding down her stomach. His mouth, leaving a searing trail down to take the place of her hand.

“You would, after I show you what I’m packing. I’d fuck you so good you’d only be saying my name for the rest of your life. Michael would be the last thing on your goddamn mind with my dick in you.”

“You think you could make me say your name?”

Trevor groaned again - that breathless, desperate growl that made him sound almost vulnerable. “I’ll make you fucking scream it.”

She could laugh, if she wasn't enjoying this just as much as Trevor. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to say my name like I’m splitting your pussy open right fucking now.”

" _Make me._ "

She was hoping he'd pick up the hint and keep talking, and true to form, he wouldn't shut his motormouth after that.

"Sugar, you won’t be able to stop saying my name by the time I’m done with you. I'll eat you out 'till you cum all over my mouth. I'll let you ride my face until you break my fucking nose." He grunted and kept right on talking. " You can slap me around, knock out my teeth, whatever you want, baby. You are _wasted_ on Michael."

“And you think you can fuck me better than him?”

“I know I can, sweetheart. I want you to get loud for me."

"Keep talking and maybe, _maybe_ , I'll talk back a little."

"I'll talk your fucking ear off if it'll just make you scream for me. Come on, baby, tell me what you wanna do to me."

"You first."

"Oh, I like a little sass," Trevor said, breath hissing out as he stroked himself. "Fuck, you have no idea - no idea - how bad I want you to break me. I want you to hold me down so I can stick my tongue in your cunt - tongue-fuck you 'till you're raw. I want you to put your tits in my face so I can suck your nipples. Shit - just fucking _wreck me_."

It was then, with that _voice_ groaning low in her ear, very nearly submissive, punctuated by broken, sobbing moans, that he finally got to her.

She pumped her wrist faster, losing the careful rhythm she’d barely managed to establish anyway. "Can I choke you?"

"'Till I'm blue in the face, baby."

"Can I bend you over backwards and fuck you until your spine cracks?"

His response was punctuated by the loudest groan she'd gotten out of him yet. The sloppy wet sounds got a little louder, a little sharper. "As long as you're riding my cock, you can do whatever you want."

"Oh, I can?" Jen asked. She’d lost all ability to compartmentalize, preferring to enjoy the idea of sinking down onto him, using his thighs and chest for leverage. She placed the phone closer to her thighs so that he could hear her working herself. "How about I fuck you then? I've got a nice big box of toys that Michael won't let me use on him. Don't you wanna be my guinea pig, Trevor?"

"Oh, _yes_."

"How about I split you open from behind while I jack you off, hmm?” Jen all but purred, just loud enough for him to hear. “Rake my nails down your back until you bleed? I'll bend you over the bed, shove your face in my mattress. I’ll fuck you stupid from behind and jack you off all over my sheets."

“Oh, god _damn_ -” 

The last half of Trevor’s words were muffled, presumably by Trevor shoving his face into a pillow. She could hear him groaning nonsense, calling her _princess_ and _sweetheart_ and saying _fuck I love you_ over and over (she presumed that was his usual reaction rather than an actual confession). He’d eased into deep, shuddering, almost erratic breaths, but it took a good couple of minutes before he stopped moaning completely. 

Jen recovered quicker and just listened to him moan into his pillow, pleased by his absolute meltdown. She cleaned herself up while she listened to him grunt and beg in monosyllabic curses.

After another minute, he spoke, hoarse and still breathless. “You still there?”

Jen held the phone against her ear with her shoulder, cradling it in place as she sank back down into the couch. “Yep.”

“...You wanna do that for real?” he asked. Jen couldn’t explain the sound of his voice - it wasn’t tentative or hesitant (she didn’t think Trevor could ever be either of those things). It certainly wasn’t tender, but it wasn’t demanding either. Hopeful, perhaps. A little giddy. “Fuck me, I mean?”

“Persuade me, and maybe I’ll even bend you over my kitchen counter.”

“Don’t tease me,” Trevor said, voice low and rough. “I can be there in an hour - I’m all yours, you can do whatever you want-”

“Persuade me,” she said again, sing-songing, and hung up the phone before Trevor had a chance to respond.

* * *

**Senora Freeway, Blaine County – Presently Crossing the Blaine County Line**

Jen had to admit, Blaine County had grown on her. With its disintegrating trailers, strange people, and partially dismantled abandoned cars, it had begun to remind her of home. Back then, home was an underpopulated swampy forest where the mosquitos were large enough to carry off the family cat, but here, the swamp was a blistering desert where the scorpions could take down a large dog given the chance and enough determination. Still, the diners and abandoned gas stations were the same, as was the sense of barely-getting-by hometown pride.

Her road trip partner certainly loved it up here. Trevor’s rants were based out of the meth-fueled fever dream he had come to associate with living in Sandy Shores. Upon entering Blaine County, he had immediately begun to opine about how much he missed Sandy Shores, and had repeated himself every ten minutes since they’d crossed the county line. He denounced Los Santos without taking a breath, and she could understand why. Los Santos had rules, but Sandy Shores was a year-long Burning Man for Trevor.

Jen picked Trevor up in her Schwartzer around 6AM so they could make it to Sandy Shores by a decent time. After about an hour in Los Santos traffic, she made him switch to the driver’s seat to give him something to do. This turned out to be a terrible idea, as one would expect. He caused a couple of accidents and clipped more than a few pedestrians, but he couldn’t be persuaded to switch back once he started driving. He calmed down when she turned the radio to the country station, but he was still a ball of nervous energy.

Despite his persistent complaining, Trevor certainly wasn’t the worst road trip partner, even if the drive up was a little… Well, it was something. He was unbelievably fidgety, loud even in close quarters, and downright belligerent to passing cars even when he wasn’t the one driving, but he kept her entertained. She supposed she could have tried to sleep on the drive over, but she couldn’t sleep with him in the car anyway for more than a few reasons.

By the time they arrived at the Sandy Shores city limits, she had listened to him run his mouth for four straight hours, which was… taxing. Not because he was running his mouth, but because he was talking. And that voice, as of the past 24 hours, had become a problem.

It was a problem because now he quite intimately _knew_ she liked his voice, and he’d been using that against her the entire drive up. He hadn’t said a single word about last night’s call, but he didn’t have to say anything about the call. He just had to _talk_. When he wasn’t complaining or yelling out the window at passing cars, he was humming in his low, low voice. He could do a passable imitation of a country twang, so he sang along to the music when he knew the words. She ignored him as fervently as she could, but he’d almost killed her with a Conway Twitty tune.

Jen prayed for a cold shower, for someone to dunk her in an ice bucket, for a frosty wind to blow through and chill the unbearable heat itching under her skin. Too bad they were in the desert.

In hindsight, it made sense why Trevor was twitchier than usual. Might have something to do with a righteous case of blue balls.

Yet, despite the vicegrip of blue balls, Trevor hadn't said anything about the call. Hadn’t brought it up, hadn’t made a pass at her, hadn’t even flirted with her. Instead, he’d filled the ride his consistent chattering, all in that _voice_.

Jen was absolutely not listening to that voice. Nope, not at all. Not listening to his voice, not remembering the phone call, not thinking about anything that had been said over the phone. Not watching his hands grip the steering wheel, tendons popping tight against muscle, veins rolling languidly.

Not watching the way the muscles flexed in his forearms.

Not watching his thighs tense and unclench under the fabric of his jeans.

Oh, she could hear Michael bitching already. 

Jen lost count of how many abandoned gas stations they’d passed. She’d tried to keep track so she could scope out the one that got shot up by the Aztecas, but all of the gas stations looked pretty much identical - decrepit, cookie-cutter nightmares of architecture. Surely, though, surely it had to be around here. There could only be a finite number of gas stations, so it had to be one of them.

It was around the time they passed the Sandy Shores Diner that Trevor announced they were making a pit stop. He swung into the gas station - the same deteriorating brick-and-mortar tragedy as every other building. But there was something about the front of the store, the dead neon lights and barely-functional ice machine that jogged her memory. 

It was definitely the gas station the Aztecas hit.

“Hey, T?”

He parked her Schwartzer behind building, jamming the gearshift up into position (she cringed). He’d all but climbed out of the car when he answered. “Yeah?”

“Who owns this place?”

“It’s my place.” Trevor shut the door, ducking his head back in through the window. “Why?”

Oh. Oh _fuck_. Oh, it's Trevor. _Of course_ , she would be looking for him, of all people. _Of course_ , he owns the stupid building. _Of course_ , he had signed the goddamn deed as Phil Atio, with his forever-teenage-boy humor. Nope, nope, can’t make those connections right now. Gotta answer him. Keep a straight face. Think of something to say. Think think _think_.

Thank goodness she was quick on her feet. “I always thought these old gas stations were abandoned.”

“Eh, most are. This one’s not.” He paused. Trevor was a perceptive one. Paranoid, some would say. “Not investigating me, are you?”

Well, technically, yes. Not intentionally, but she’d only just figured that out thirty seconds ago. Not that she was going to tell him that. What an awful fuckin’ idea that would be, all the way out here with _no witnesses_.

“Not my area,” Jen replied automatically. “Murders only.”

He eyed her but conceded. “It’s the base of operations for Trevor Philips Industries. The, uh, previous owner didn’t want to let go of it, but I... _convinced_ him. Had to falsify the deed, though.”

Best to change the subject. “Why are we here?”

“Gotta grab some supplies.”

Trevor entered the gas station, strutting through the front door like the king returning home. He returned shortly thereafter with a duffel bag the size of a body bag. Jen didn’t ask what was in the bag, but then, she didn’t have to ask. The clanging, clinking noises filling the car as he shoved the bag into her backseat told her exactly what was in it.

He whipped the car out of the gas station and headed out to the Altruist camp. It would be another hour before they'd be at the front gate of the camp, which was enough time for her to think about fuckin' Phil Atio sitting right next to her.

With his stupid, muscular forearms. And his stupid deep voice.

Oh, this was so bad.

“This is it,” Trevor said, squealing to a hard stop in front of the camp.

Jen had gotten used to his absolutely terrifying driving over the last few hours but barreling down a dirt road in the desert was nevertheless traumatizing. The important thing was that he’d gotten them to the Altruist camp without blowing out her tires. 

Trevor watched the front gate like a hawk for a few minutes before climbing out of the car, long legs kicking up dust. He beckoned her to follow him with the short order to stay behind him. 

Jen followed him out into the camp, the heat beating down on her back. It was eerily quiet, not a soul to be found, and looked like what the set of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre must have looked like before the film crew dumped the blood everywhere. There were a few decrepit shacks dotting the place, a few rusted cars here and there. Mostly, it was a whole lot of nothing much.

A fine, sandy dust drifted through the camp, tugged along by the lightest of light breezes. Nothing to stir up the dust but the wind, it seemed. No one around to kick it up.

“It’s… deserted?” Jen asked, keeping her voice low. She was too short to keep up with him (thereby ignoring his orders to stay behind him), so she pretty much had to stay behind him. “There’s no way.”

“This don’t feel right.”

Trevor stopped and held up his arm to keep her from stepping any further into the camp. The palm of her hand found his arm, fingers squeezing his bicep as if she could use his arm as a shield. Her other hand wound into the back of his shirt. She’d been peeking around him, so he nudged her behind him to keep her out of the way.

“Why?”

“There’s always a guard out here,” he replied shortly. He prodded her stomach to get her to move backwards before placing his hand on the butt of the pistol shoved into his belt loops. When did he put that there? How had she missed that? “He’s supposed to check identification.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve been out here a time or two.” 

Out from a shack that looked otherwise abandoned stepped a grizzled older man clad in faded denim overalls with no shirt underneath. The man’s lack of shirt was the least of their worries; he held a rifle with both hands that made Trevor’s pistol look like a peashooter.

“Trevor Philips,” the man said, positioning the butt of the rifle against his shoulder. “Wasn’t you supposed to be bringin’ us that girl from the lighthouse?”

“What is he talking about?” Jen asked, hand tightening in his shirt.

The man edged out towards the top step connecting the rotting porch to the sand below. He tipped his head towards Jen, who ducked behind Trevor’s shoulder (but kept peeking out around him). “That ain’t the right girl there, buddy.”

She poked Trevor in the back, hissing at him feverishly. “Are you about to hand me over to them, you ass?”

“Are you the girl from the lighthouse? No,” he snapped over his shoulder. “Shut up and let me handle this.”

The man cocked the hammer back. “You owe us, you know that?”

Trevor held up the hand that wasn’t attached to his pistol. “Sorry, friend - Ursula convinced me otherwise. Yeah, she’s got a talented tongue, that one. Talked me out of it real quick.”

“If you ain’t bringing us Ursula, we got a problem.” The man took another step towards the sand, eyes trained down the scope of his rifle.

“What are you gonna do, ya old fuck, huh?” Trevor snorted. “I don’t owe you jack shit!”

As the man spoke, a whole host of Altruists - men and women - began to emerge from the shacks and tents dotting the area. They must have been watching through the shaded windows, waiting until the man gave a signal.

The man waved the end of his rifle, beckoning the Altruists out onto the desert sand. “But we’ll take that there woman you got with you, if you’re so inclined. A trade.”

Trevor shook his head. “Nuh-uh, no can do - this one’s not up for trade, boys. She’s all mine.”

“We could take her from you.”

"I’d like to see you try!”

With that, a shot rang out, narrowly missing Trevor’s shoulder. He shoved Jen over towards the car without turning around, keeping his pistol trained on the host of Altruists drawing their own weapons. He fired two shots in return, and must have hit at least one mark, if the scream of pain was any indication.

Trevor hauled Jen behind her car and dragged her down to relative safety. From the backseat, he yanked the black bag out onto the sand. He grabbed a weathered old shotgun and a rifle - two beastly things far heavier than anything the Altruists held – from the bag, making sure not to get sand anywhere on them.

He held the rifle up for her to see. “You know how to shoot?”

Jen nodded, afraid to speak. Shots rang out overhead, a few of them thudding into the side of her car.

“You think you can shoot a person?”

She nodded again, a little more hesitant. Life or death, right? It's just like shooting a deer, right? A deer that can shoot back. A deer that's not a deer. She’s never even shot a deer. It's a fucking person. 

“That’s my girl,” he replied, shoving the rifle into her arms. He grabbed the shotgun for himself and shoved his pistol bag into the waistband of his jeans. “Cover me and keep your head down.”

Trevor ducked out from behind the car and started firing, each shot hitting something.

None of the Altruists were pointing a gun in her direction, but plenty were pointing one in his. Jen peeked over the trunk, resting the rifle on top of it to keep it steady. She waited until a couple of them that Trevor couldn’t see poked their heads out. One guy held a pistol, the other trained a modified shotgun on his back. They started in towards him.

Jen held her breath and squeezed the trigger.

Her first shot caught one guy in the back of the head. The gunshot was enough to make the second guy pause and look around, which was just enough time for her to reposition. She squeezed the trigger again, catching the second guy squarely in the back.

She surveyed the area down the scope as Trevor finished off the last of the Altruists brave enough to keep shooting at them. She stayed hunched over the trunk of the car with the stock shoved up against her shoulder until he called that it was safe.

Jen kept the rifle up on her shoulder just in case someone else was brave enough to poke their head out. She swiped an errant curl out of her face as she surveyed the damage. Eight people on the ground, full of bullet holes. Six by his hand, two by hers. The shacks had been shot up, tents torn and ripped. She didn’t want to see what the passenger’s side of her car looked like yet.

Trevor looked fine, though he was covered in blood. In fact, he looked pretty giddy. He strode over and tossed his shotgun into the backseat. She caught his eye and placed the rifle down on top of the trunk, still within easy reaching distance.

“Well, that takes care of that problem!” he hooted.

“We just got ambushed.”

He nodded, obviously unfazed. “Seems that way.”

“You just shot six people.”

“Would you rather be eaten?” he asked. He leaned up against the side of the car. “Because that's what they were going to do to us!”

And in that moment, it hit her. “I just shot two people.”

“Yes, you did.” The look in his eyes was almost dreamy. God, that voice was going to kill her. Was he a little turned on? He looked like it. Not the point right now. "Honestly, I didn't know if you'd do it when I gave you the gun."

"You didn't think I'd shoot someone? Of course, I would! They were gonna kill you!" She paused. "Holy fuck. Trevor, I killed two people.” 

“Well, you can’t un-shoot them!”

She held up a hand to her mouth. “I'm gonna throw up."

Jen bent double and shoved her mass of curls out of her face, wishing she'd just pulled it up that morning. After a couple choking, dry heaves, she emptied her stomach of every cup of coffee she'd had in the past 24 hours. After the second heave, she felt a tentative hand rubbing her back in small concentric circles – an attempt to be comforting. Then the hand was in her hair, keeping the curls at bay.

"Come on, we gotta get out of here," Trevor said. His blunt nails dragged against her scalp. "Get it all up so we can go. There might be more of them."

She stood up and swiped her hand across her mouth, shuddering. He kept his hand on her back, guiding her so she'd walk around to the passenger side of her car.

She groaned when she saw the passenger's side. “And my car is full of bullet holes.”

Trevor popped the hood of her car, noting that there were a few shots lodged in the mechanical innards. “Uh, it’s smoking, too. Pretty sure it’s almost totaled.”

Jen took a breath, pressing her fingers to her temples. Now was not the time to cry. Throw up? Yes. Cry? Absolutely not. Not in front of him. She tried to keep her voice from cracking and almost succeeded. “Take me home. Now, please.”

He seemed a little taken aback (he is so bad at feelings), but he complied. "Alright, your car might make it back to my place. We’ll get rid of it there, and I’ll take you home.”

“Get rid of it?”

“We’re gonna blow it up."

Nope, not the right thing to say.

"It's the first decent car I've ever had, Trevor! We can’t blow it up!”

"Well, what else can we do with it? This thing won’t make it to the county line!”

“It was my first car! Sorry, I'm a little attached!"

"It'll be a proper send-off, then!"

Jen sighed, defeated. Now was not the time nor the place to have a knock-down, drag-out fight. She climbed into the passenger seat, careful not to look at the bullet holes for too long. She’d had her Schwartzer since college. It had been the first car she’d ever had that ran properly. But she would have to mourn later - right now, she had to figure out why they’d been ambushed.

"How did they know we were coming?" Jen asked, more so to herself than Trevor, but he had an answer.

“Uh, we got set up!”

Jen fiddled with the fabric that had been torn by the bullet's exit into the car. “Haines sent me up here, but I don’t think he’d try to set me up. You know anybody who'd have tipped them off?”

“It was fuckin’ Haines! It couldn’t be anyone else!”

“I’m not saying it wasn’t him, I’m just saying that if he was gonna set us up, he’d wanna be here to witness it.”

“Who’s to say the bastard wasn’t watching?”

“Well, how would he know the Altruists would react like that?”

“Because he sent _me_ with you!” Trevor yelled. She flinched, and he immediately wished he had better impulse control. “I got beef with the Altruists, and they’re not known for their negotiation skills.”

"I gathered that once they started shooting us and offered to trade for me," Jen snapped, though it was hardly more than a dispassionate grumble. “Look, just - just stop yelling and get us… wherever we’re going. We’ll figure out who set us up later.”

Jen would call Dave Norton in the morning. Haines would never tell her if he’d tipped the Altruists off, but Dave would if he knew. But that was a problem for tomorrow. Right now, she just wanted to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll have part two of this chapter done in the next few days after I edit it, get dissatisfied, rewrite it, then edit it again, and repeat the whole cycle about three times. These next few chapters are smutty and delicate. And there's feelings in there somewhere.


	10. Strangers & Freaks // Trevor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trauma? Blowing shit up? Eye fucking? You betcha. Let's do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got bored and made some playlists instead of doing what I'm actually supposed to be doing. Enjoy.
> 
> Trevor: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6LNpFnP1OGctDTGseWDXOA?si=cfjvdni_QHayEAk0K8iMOg
> 
> Michael: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7skLcVtF8UUEe4HXtkMMwV?si=G-9IuuCVQNa8EMFpMuUolA

The Altruist camp had only just vanished from the rearview mirror when the Schwartzer completely choked out. The smoke pillowing out from under the hood was dark and thick, and at that point, it was unsafe to drive any further. Trevor pulled over to the side of the dirt road where the car gave one last shuddering cough before expiring. 

Trevor slammed the driver’s side door behind him and jacked up the hood so he could check out the engine. No point in sitting in the car unless she wanted to die of heat stroke. Jen hopped up on the trunk and sat silently, sweating bullets in the heat and half-listening to Trevor cursing at the car, while they waited for the rescue brigade to arrive. 

After an hour or so, Ron pulled up in a massive green pickup. He and Trevor managed to hook the front of the Schwartzer up to the truck while Jen milled about, watching scorpions scurry through the sand and wishing she was already home. Once the Schwartzer was securely hooked to the trailer hitch, Ron climbed up into the bed of the truck. Poor guy just automatically assumed he didn’t get to ride in the truck with them. Jen would have laughed if it wasn’t kind of sad.

They drove through Sandy Shores in much the same way they’d weathered the heat - silently, Jen staring off in the distance, Trevor occasionally cursing whenever they hit a dip in the road. He’d turned the radio on a few miles back to kill some of the monotony, but the dead air was deafening. He never claimed to be good at reading a room, but he could read this room. This was a trauma she was going to have to learn to live with on her own, much like the rest of them had learned to live with it (and, in Trevor’s case, enjoy it). 

Trevor parked on the dirt road outside of his trailer, totally in the way of any car that might come rattling along. The siding of the trailer was weather worn, like it had been sandblasted a few too many times. There were beer bottles covering every surface, what looked like a couple dirty pairs of underwear hanging over the railing, and those were definitely pot plants next to the door. He beckoned her to follow him inside, opening the door for her with his usual pseudo-gentlemanly bluster. He blew through the trailer, rummaging through cabinets on the search for supplies. 

Ron stumbled in after them, straightening up and kicking empty beer cans under the couch as he scurried about. Clearly, he’d been ordered to clean while Trevor was away and hadn’t done so - a fact that honestly didn’t seem to bother Trevor beyond snapping at Ron that he’d cut his balls off if he didn’t start taking better care of the place.

Jen stood by the door as Trevor searched for whatever was on his list of supplies he needed to blow up her car, taking in the whole aesthetic of the place. The inside of his home pretty well mirrored the outside. It was wrecked, piled up with empty beer cans and spent wrappers littering the floor. The carpet had obviously never seen a vacuum, and the dishes in the sink may have last been washed a few months ago. Odd posters, weird little figurines, dirty magazines on every surface - it was all so perfectly Trevor.

Trevor caught her eyeing the place and called up to her from his position under the kitchen sink (there had to be lighter fluid somewhere). “Turn your nose up any higher and you’ll drown if it rains.”

Jen ventured into the hellstorm, nudging cans with the toe of her black boots. She leaned against the kitchen island, choosing the spot that looked the most clean. “It’s not that bad.”

He grunted. “You look like you’re personally offended.”

She shrugged. “I have three older brothers. I’ve seen worse.”

Trevor finally found the container of lighter fluid he’d been looking for. Everything else on the list had been boxed and shoved to the back of the cabinet. “Were your brothers notorious drug dealers with their own company?”

“Two of them were.”

Trevor paused, grin unfolding. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. They’re both doing life for armed robbery.”

"Third strike kind of thing?"

"Something like that, yeah,” Jen said. She tipped her head towards the box supplies Trevor had left on the table. “That everything?”

It was probably best that he change out of the bloodied t-shirt and jeans. Blood had seeped through his clothes, and it itched something fierce. Jen also wouldn’t look directly at him, and he couldn’t have that. “Gimme a minute.”

Trevor threw open his bedroom door and rooted around in the closet for a change of clothes that might be passably clean-ish. Or, at least a change of clothes that wasn't covered in bloodstains or overwhelmingly grubby. He managed to locate one of his famous white t-shirts and a pair of sweats that might have seen better days, but were clean nonetheless. He tugged his bloodied shirt over his head, tossing it into the corner, and didn't fail to notice Jen giving him the most fleeting of once-overs. He winked when he caught her eye, and she turned away with a huff.

Instead of continuing to watch Trevor dress himself, and thereby opening herself up to any untimely advances, Jen examined Ron's nervous cleaning. He seemed to be just barely on the cusp of just burning the place down and starting anew, but Jen figured Trevor might actually take him out behind the barn and put him down. Nevertheless, he seemed to be doing his best.

Trevor emerged from his room, no longer clothed in the evidence of the day. Not clean, but not covered in blood, and that’s the important thing. He tossed Jen the keys to the truck and grabbed the box of supplies. “Alright, let's give that car the send-off it deserves.”

Trevor instructed Jen where they were going and left her to get them there safely while he rigged up some kind of contraption with the contents of the box. For once, she was grateful to be the one driving. Trevor wasn’t running his mouth this time, of distracting her with his voice, so she could concentrate. Driving calmed her nerves and driving with the windows down kept her from retching every time she started thinking too deeply.

Trevor glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and cleared his throat, still fiddling with the supplies in the box. He kept his voice down, concerned that his normal tone would startle her. “You okay over there?”

Jen could feel the no forming on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t bring herself to spit it out into the open air. She felt like crawling out of her skin and leaving it in the desert sand. “I’m fine.”

In Trevor's corner of the universe, it was a normal day, if one could call a massive shootout normal. A shootout got his blood pumping almost as fast as the speed. To her, though, this was different. It was one thing to watch the surveillance tape, visit the crime scene, show the snuff film - being in the middle of the scene was quite another. Like chopping a branch off a tree, it had taken a piece of Jen away from here. It would heal, yes, and the tree still stood, but the injury couldn't be denied.

As maladaptive as his own feelings could be, Trevor could still be oddly comforting when he wanted to be. “Obviously not.”

“I will be.”

“You’re right,” Trevor agreed. “You will be. You’ve seen worse.”

“Yeah, right.”

He didn't know if teasing or joking would work, but he had to test the waters. Slap a bandaid on the tree, if you will.

“You’ve seen Michael naked. That’s a hell of a lot worse.”

Trevor caught the smallest twitch of a smile on her lips. Ah, sweet triumph. His ego swelled until it flirted with the roof of the car, even with just that little movement. Scary as she may be, dominant even, that smile could cure cancer. With those plush lips, the crinkled eyes, right down to her upturned pixie nose, Trevor couldn’t miss why Michael, fickle and callous though he may be, kept coming back to her. (Why she kept coming back to Michael, Trevor was at a loss.)

Trevor had an exasperating way of cheering her up, even at times like these. She fought back on that grin. “I like seeing Michael naked.”

Trevor did, too. It was kind of one of the major problems of his life. Not that he’d tell her that. Well, not yet anyway.

“I think we need to get your eyes checked.”

“Yeah, along with my brain.”

Trevor could have driven around the entire state bantering with Jen until that smile never left her face, but there was business to be done. He instructed her to pull up behind one of the many decaying, abandoned gas stations dotting the Senora Freeway. While he rigged the Schwartzer to blow, Jen climbed over into the passenger seat of the truck so that she could rest while they watched. 

Jen left the door open, her feet dangling over the desert sand, and watched him get to work. Trevor’s shirt clung to his skin, adhered by a thin layer of sweat. The old white t-shirt was so threadbare, she could see right through it (as if she hadn’t seen him without his shirt already). While she liked a thicker man (i.e., Michael), she couldn’t imagine a universe where she didn’t appreciate the way Trevor’s hard, wiry muscles flexed against his skin. Back muscles, man – one of her weaknesses.

He walked back to the truck Sandy Shores was his playground, and he was king of the sandbox. He didn't carry that swagger in Los Santos; there, he stalked around like a jackal about to get jumped. Here stood one of the most dangerous men she'd ever met, maybe even more so than Michael in terms of brute power, and all she wanted to do was fuck him until he begged.

Jen hadn't listened to Dave Norton when he told her to stay away from Michael de Santa. She was having a lot of trouble remembering why she was supposed to stay away from Trevor Philips, too.

The Schwartzer went up in flames just as Trevor reached the truck. He leaned against the side, right next to Jen’s open door. One arm hung dangerously close to her knee, and she tried to pay it no mind.

“I worked three jobs in college to afford that car,” Jen opined. A distraction would help - reminiscing about her beloved car. “My old Gauntlet died my freshman year. Not that it was in good shape when I got it, but the street racing in high school didn't do it any favors.”

“Street racing? You?” Trevor scoffed. “Nah, you’re gonna have to prove that one.”

Jen grinned, finally. A real smile. “You’ll have to race me to find out.”

It hadn't registered with him yet, but he would readily blaze a trail through the entire godforsaken desert of Blaine County if she commanded it. “Oh, I’d take you down no problem, sweetheart.”

The lecherous grin did not go unnoticed, nor was it unwanted. Jen rolled her eyes and punched his arm lightly. “I said I did it. I never said I was any good.”

“I’d go easy on you,” Trevor replied. His shoulder was touching her thigh now, completely intentionally. “Where did that wild streak go?”

“The fact that I watched you light my car on fire instead of running for the hills means it’s still there.” 

He was pleased when she didn’t pull away and decided to test his luck by outright leaning against her. “What else did Princess Jen get up to in her spare time?”

Jen knew he was testing her, but that was fine. She was testing to see how far he’d take it. “TP'd some houses, egged some cars - kid stuff. Nothing much to do out in the middle of nowhere.”

“Small-town boredom. I know it well,” Trevor replied. He grinned his sly grin, and Jen couldn’t help but study the curve of his lips. “Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

“Three older brothers, remember? They used to make me go hunting with them.” Jen raised her eyebrows. “You’ve been making fun of my accent for months now, but you have to ask that question?”

“It would be presumptuous of me to assume that you possess the usual array of hillbilly skills just because you sound like a hillbilly.”

“Fuck you,” she snorted. She caught him grinning like he’d done his job properly. “Eh, you’re not wrong.”

“I knew it.”

“I’m sure you did,” Jen teased. She was silent for a beat as she chewed on her bottom lip, the hard metallic taste of blood flooding her tongue. “‘Bout the only thing useful my dad ever taught us was how to shoot.”

“Ah, dead-beat type?”

“No, just… overworked, I guess. He and my mom both. After I reached a certain age, I didn’t see much of them.”

Trevor could sympathize, but now probably wasn’t the best time to break out the mommy and daddy issues that had plagued him for most of his life. Instead, he figured it was best to change the subject. He was all for a good sob session, but that wouldn't exactly further his goal of trying to cheer her up.

“Didn’t picture you as the hunting type.”

“I’m not.” She shook her head. “I tagged along, but I couldn’t pull the trigger.”

In an effort to find something to do with her hands (so she wouldn't just outright grab him), she made a spirited attempt at braiding her hair up out of the way. Her curls had taken on a life of their own, and, between the heat and sweat beading over every inch of skin, had grown to a Medusa-like tangle. It was a lost cause.

“Where’d you learn to shoot?” she asked, concentrating on the dusty rearview mirror. 

“I was in the air force.”

“No shit?” she asked, ginger eyebrows almost disappearing into her hair. She teased delicately, “Canadian?”

“It’s a _slight_ fucking accent!”

“Nuh-uh, buddy, don't get pissy with me. You've been busting my balls with that hillbilly bullshit for weeks,” she threw back at him. 

“Hey, my impersonation of you is spot- _fucking_ -on!”

She laughed. “It’s _passable_ , I’ll give you that.”

It got quiet, but the silence was comfortable. Jen reached back to turn on the radio. She’d never really liked country music, but the older music that Trevor preferred wasn’t half bad. The fire had begun to die down, leaving a mass of melted plastic and charred metal. 

Jen caught him watching her face, the way her nose turned up at the end and how her lips moved. He was too easy to read. It would be so easy to lean over and kiss him. Even easier to have him right there in the passenger seat.

Michael was the type of guy who knew what he liked and knew what she liked, and that was good enough for him. He was good, so good, always had been, because it stroked his ego to know that he did a good job and made her feel good. 

Jen had a few preferences that Michael wouldn't indulge, though. If last night's phone call was any indication, Trevor wasn't quite so squeamish. The knowledge alone - just that little inkling - was enough to make her salivate.

She really needed to stay away from Trevor fuckin’ Philips.

The sun had just slipped over the horizon, leaving them with red-orange dregs of sunlight that were quickly fading away. She nudged his arm with her knee. “It’s gonna be late by the time we get back.”

“We could always stay at my place,” he replied, winking. “There’s only one bed, though.”

“Yeah, I saw the stains. Not on your life, darlin’.”

* * *

Michael pulled his bloodied shirt over his head and flung it into the laundry room. He didn’t see where it landed, nor did he care. The cleaning lady would be coming by tomorrow – he paid her to care so he didn’t have to. She’d yell at him, mostly joking, but she’d scrub the bloodstains out of his clothes and pick up the pieces of broken glass from the picture frames off the floor. Besides, blood wouldn’t be the weirdest thing she’d ever had to clean up in this house.

The blood wasn’t his, thankfully. It was the product of that asshole movie star’s major nosebleed. Five minutes of Michael fucking with him on the helicopter, and the dude’s nose started spurting like a geyser. He’d kind-of, sort-of passed out on the flight and halfway landed in Michael’s personal bubble, hence the blood on his shirt. (Michael might have punched him a couple times too - for good measure, of course.)

If today was any indication, the gig with Solomon Richards was going to be excellent. Yelling at snotty actors? Hell, yeah, he could do that. Threatening people? It’s what he based his entire life on. He could handle Devin Weston being a giant bag of dicks if it meant keeping this sweet gig. He liked the old man, too. He’d finally found someone with whom he could relate.

Michael stepped out of his pants and boxers and tossed them into the laundry room, too. They didn’t have quite so much blood on them, but again, the cleaning lady had cleaned up stranger things in his house. After he finished undressing, he showered, letting the scalding water run over until the water ran cold. Tension had knotted up his neck, and tossing around some strung-out, ‘roided up actor had his back in a mess. It felt incredible to let the water melt all of that away, at least for a little while.

Tonight was movie night. If Michael was going to continue to work with Solomon Richards, he’d need to brush up on his discography. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the kitchen counter, a lowball, and a made a bowl of popcorn – the environment had to be just right. He’d just about settled in for the afternoon when his phone rang. He kind of hoped it was Jen calling him for dinner (or anything else she wanted), but alas, duty called. Dave’s name popped up on his home screen.

Dave never bothered with greetings or formalities anymore. Straight to the point, and Michael liked that just fine. “Haines wants you and your buddies at that warehouse off of El Rancho tomorrow.”

Michael sighed. “What for this time?”

“More service to your country, if you will.”

Of course. The FIB was determined to bleed him dry. He knew better than to assume Dave had any real power to make this mess go away. He was the crowning achievement of Dave’s career – and Dave hadn’t even gotten that quite right.

Michael adjusted the phone so that he could take a sip of his drink. “You know, you really need to get this shit under control, Dave.”

“Sometimes it’s not about controlling the weather, Michael,” Dave replied. “Sometimes it’s about hunkering down under the cheap umbrella until the storm goes away.”

“Yeah, well, you need to get a better umbrella because we’re both gonna be murdered in our beds if you don’t. Or sent to prison.”

“I’m handling it. You worry about the task at hand.”

Michael shook his head but made his promise anyway. “We’ll be there.”

“Bright and early. No sleeping in tomorrow.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Oh, and you may want to call your girlfriend. She’s had a rough day.”

Something in Dave’s tone didn’t sit right with Michael. It was a little too self-satisfied, too sly. Smug, almost. He and Haines had been having way too much fun dragging Jen into all of this.

Whiskey bubbled in his gut, the burn altogether quite unpleasant. “What are you talking about?”

“You really should watch the news more.”

* * *

Trevor got them back to Los Santos in good time. It was late, but still early enough that the evening news had only just started to run. Jen made a habit of watching the news every night that she could - it was part of the job. Weazel was running a segment from that morning. And boy, was Weazel News running.

Had Jen been able to look at her phone, she’d have known long before the evening news what was happening in her own backyard. The face giving tonight’s speech was not unfamiliar to her. It was the IAA agent, Karen, who’d been going through her files relentlessly for the past who-knows-how-long.

Karen, with her straight brown hair and Midwest clip, had obviously been appointed the sacrificial lamb to stand on the podium. “It has come to our attention that the voting system used in the last election may have been tampered with, specifically in regards to the mayor’s campaign, several members of the board of commissioners, and the district attorney."

 _Karen_ , with her accusatory tone and constant use of the office coffeepot, did not seem to mind being the sacrificial lamb. “We, at the IAA, will be working diligently to resolve any possible fraudulent actions on the part of elected officials.”

 _ **Karen**_ , with her twiggy frame and tweed jacket, who’d wormed her way through the backroom files and found nothing, had been chosen to announce the news. “The IAA is determined to let these individuals know that, should our suspicions prove correct, that their behavior will not be tolerated.”

Jen stared blankly at the TV for a solid five minutes, then grabbed her phone.

“Dave-”

Dave cut her off before she could start. “Before you have a meltdown, the story came out this morning. We’ve been working on it all day.”

“I was almost murdered, Dave,” Jen snapped. She probably would have thrown a pen at his head if he’d been standing in front of her. The pen likely would have missed and hit Haines in the eyeball accidentally-on-purpose. “My car is totaled, I’m pretty sure you and Haines set us up, and now my job is in jeopardy when I literally haven’t done anything. This is not a meltdown. This is me getting shit done.”

“We didn’t set you up. We sent Trevor with you to investigate in hopes that either he’d take care of the Altruist problem, or the Altruists would take care of the Trevor problem.” Dave paused. “The IAA had scouts planted in the camp.”

“So you just let me walk into a trap?”

“Trevor’s enough of a precaution. Besides, if we thought you were in serious danger, we wouldn’t have asked you to go in.”

“And this was Steve’s idea?”

“For the most part, yes. The higher-ups agreed.”

Jen had to get control of the situation. Lucky for her, she had a great way to persuade Dave Norton to do what she wanted.

“Playing dirty is a bad look for you, but I’ll play along,” Jen said. “If you don’t get Haines under control, Dave, I’ll let it slip to Trevor that you’re the one who set up the North Yankton bust.”

“How do you - did Michael tell you about North Yankton?”

“No, actually, you did. You remember how you tried to warn me to stay away from Michael de Santa? About three years ago? You gave me his unredacted file. I’ve known about all of this for years.”

Dave sighed. “You’re almost as bad as my ex-wife.”

“I’m offended! Sheila would have already told Trevor.”

“You’re right about that.”

“Look, I like you, Dave." Jen said. "We’ve always had a good working relationship. Let’s get back on the same page here so we can get our lives back in order. Get Haines under control, okay?”

“I’m doing my best to look out for you, Jen.”

“I know. I’ll try to do some damage control of my own.”

Jen hung up and immediately pressed send again, this time on another contact in her phone. The phone clicked on the first ring.

“How soon can you be here?”

The voice replied. “An hour. Why?”

“I need some _persuading_. I think you’re the man for the job.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, friends. I'm in the middle of bar prep. I move in six days. I start my big girl job in two weeks. I broke out in hives yesterday, so I'm obviously handling the stress super well.
> 
> I'm trying to get through with these edits as timely as I can, given my current workload. Have no fear, I have a schedule! I love schedules. And lists. (My closet is color-coded.) Thankfully, this story had been mostly written for years, so I'm just filling in gaps and editing what's already been done. Which, as I've discovered, takes a lot longer than anticipated, as I never feel like it's quite good enough. Anywho, I'll have the next section out by next Monday!


	11. Strangers & Freaks // Trevor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Issa lotta smut. Enjoy, friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a week (and a day) late. I'mma make it up to ya, baby. Promise.

Trevor showed up just as the sun sank, finally and completely, beyond the horizon. An hour was an overstatement - it may have been a solid thirty minutes from the minute Jen hung up the phone. 

To Jen's surprise, he'd cleaned up before driving over. Frankly, she'd been expecting the worst. He smelled like the cheap men’s soap you could pick up at the convenience store, but it was a good smell - the smell of effort. The change of clothes, while they may have seen better days, even looked clean, too (now there was the real shocker). Like most everything he wore, it had been worn thin with time. The sleeves strained around his biceps like a second skin; the pants were equally as tight and cupped his bits and pieces nicely. 

All in all, Jen was actually quite impressed. 

Jen gave him a good once-over, taking in everything the roughly obscene aesthetic had to offer. It was a look that was matched in full by Trevor, being that Jen had purposefully chosen to answer the door in her short robe. She ushered him through the door before anyone in the hallway other than Trevor caught an eyeful of her in her robe. "Sorry to drag you back here."

Trevor shrugged, smirking. His gaze was trained on her bare legs, and Jen didn't think she'd get him to look her in the eye if she tried. “I ain't sayin' I mind driving back, but if you'd made this decision earlier, we'd have already been having a really fun afternoon.”

“I'd have to agree with you there.”

Jen guided Trevor into the kitchen, though "guided" is a loose term. If he walked any closer, he'd be stepping all over her heels. For a second, she was viciously reminded of all the advice she'd received from her Sunday School teachers what felt like millennia ago - save room for Jesus and all that. Not that Jesus would be anywhere in that apartment in, oh, about five minutes. 

She opened her liquor cabinet and poured two drinks, the contents of which vanished about as soon as each glass reached the intended hand. An appetizer for altogether more pleasant burn to come.

Trevor left his glass in the sink. "So, uh, why the sudden… interest?"

Jen hopped up onto the kitchen counter, carefully crossing her legs. The short movement didn't stop Trevor's laser-stare from returning to her muscled thighs. "It's not sudden."

What an infuriating grin. "Why didn't you say something sooner?"

She uncrossed her legs and crossed them again just to see if he'd make a move. "You know why."

"Well, how did I manage to persuade you within the span of 24 hours?" He didn't move an inch, but he did, finally, meet her eyes. The hazel in his eyes constituted hardly more than a ring around his blown-wide pupils. "By doing nothing, at that."

"I..." She paused, momentarily distracted by the veins roping around his corded forearms. "Like control."

"You don't say!" Trevor clapped a hand over his heart. "My God, I had no clue."

"Oh, hush." She rolled her eyes. Again, she paused, chewing on her bottom lip. He watched her mouth and the way her pink tongue traced where she'd bitten. "Lately, I don't feel like I have an abundance of control."

"Suppose not," Trevor replied. He took a couple of steps towards her, slowly, almost like he was afraid she'd change her mind. Or run off. "And... Michael?"

She grinned, and once again, Trevor was struck by the idea that he'd gladly give up a kidney to keep her smiling like that. "Michael likes when I do the work because, in his heart, he's lazy. He's not quite so keen on... _other things_ , though."

Trevor took another step, this time close enough that her still-crossed knees brushed his stomach. "Oh, sugar, you're preaching to the choir."

Jen didn't stop to think about what he might be implying, because as soon as he was close enough to touch her, she lost the ability to focus on anything short of grabbing him with her itching fingers. "After today and the past couple of weeks, I need the _other_."

He touched her knee. "You can have anything you want."

“Is that right?”

“ _Any_ thing.”

Jen took his face in her hands, her thumb brushing the pulse under his jaw. “You gonna do what I say?”

_“Absolutely.”_

“Might get a little rough for you.”

“I’d be insulted otherwise.”

As the last syllable hung in the air, Trevor's mouth crashed against hers, all but devouring her, lips cracked and chapped, oddly gentle to be so insistent. Jen clutched at his shirt and yanked him against her before wrapping her arms around his neck to keep him squarely in place. He urged her back against the wall, palms on either side of her face, sliding around to the back of her head to tangle in her hair.

His hands slipped from her hair down to her waist, back up her sides, back up to grab her hair again. His hips kept her knees trapped against the counter, the entirety of his body pressing down against her. She slid her thigh between his, giving him something to rut against, half-hard cock straining against his zipper.

Trevor went to slip his hand into her robe, which was enough to drag her reluctantly back to the present. As much as she'd like to just let him get down to business and fuck her brains out, that wasn't quite the point of why she'd called him. She pulled away before he could get skin-on-skin contact and took a deep breath, feeling very much like she'd taken way too many shots of vodka way too quickly.

Jen took his chin in her hand again, this time making sure to apply a little pressure. "Get on your knees."

He kept a hand on her waist, absently twisting the tie of her robe. "Right here?"

A little more pressure. "Did I stutter?"

“Suppose I say no, princess?” Trevor hummed, winding the tie around his fist. He all but growled as she gently disentangled his hands from her person. Compliance would get him to his goal much more quickly than impatience, so he stepped back, discontent but able to tolerate the distance by watching the muscles in her legs cord and shift with each movement. His next breath came as a shudder - his best effort at self-control. "What are you gonna do?"

Jen's eyebrows arched. She searched his face, examining the crags and scars - the dark eyebrows that gave him a permanent look of defiance. She glanced at the wooden block full of knives on the counter next to them and waited for the go-ahead. 

The almost imperceptible nod coupled with that devious stare was exactly what she needed. She grabbed the first one her hand landed on - a long, thin boning knife - and pulled it from the block. Dropping her arm down between them, right at the level of his navel, she gripped the handle tightly. 

Trevor eyed the knife in her hand, his face slowly splitting into a wide grin. "Oh, I knew I liked you for a reason, sweetheart."

Her grin matched his flawlessly. "Your approval is, as always, duly noted."

From his vantage point, Trevor enjoyed the slowly widening slit at the tied belt of her robes as the tie started coming loose, still eyeing the knife in her hand with great interest. She looked up at him from underneath her eyelashes, then brought the tip of the knife up to his chin. Pressing it ever so gently against his skin, she blazed a lazy trail from his neck to the top button of his shirt.

"You should learn to do as you're told and get on your knees" Jen said. She slid the knife down his chest, bumping along the line of buttons on his flannel. "I might let you keep this shirt in one piece if you do."

He growled, leaning into the tip of the knife. The blade slipped under a button and sliced clean through the threads without resistance. "What if I don't?"

Jen had begun to realize how much larger he was than her; he rivaled Michael in size, though Mike was thick and sturdy rather than hard and wiry. Nevertheless, even though he outsized her, she had control here. She grabbed his belt loops and pulled him against her. 

She dropped the knife down to the zipper of his pants and pressed the edge of the blade to his stiffening cock. "That's a shame. You really do look good in flannel."

She slid the knife between the top two buttons of his shirt and cut the threads, button by button, until it was completely open. He hadn't bothered to put on an undershirt, which meant every ruined inch of fabric exposed more of his sun-weathered chest and coarse, dark hair. She shoved the material off his shoulders. The rest of his clothing got more of the same ungentle treatment, until he was standing naked in her kitchen, hips wedged securely between her knees.

Trevor moved to untie the belt around her waist, but she slapped his hand away. "Nuh-uh, darlin’. You gotta follow orders first."

He ignored her. "It's a little drafty in here, isn't it? You ought to warm me back up."

She pressed the flat side of the blade against his straining cock, rubbing the edge gently up his length. His soft answering whimper sent sparks crawling up the base of her spine. "You'll be plenty warm in a minute. Now, get on your fucking knees."

Trevor finally did as he was bid to do and dropped down. He pressed open-mouth kisses to her inner thighs, her skin softer than silk, until she grabbed the back of his head. She pulled his hair so he'd look up at her, hard enough to bring stinging tears to his eyes.

Jen pulled the tie on her robe and let it hang open for a second, earning a fantastically deep groan from Trevor, before scooting up to the edge of the counter. "You're gonna put that mouth to good use, aren't you, Trevor?"

He nodded vigorously, tongue lolling out like some ridiculous cartoon.

"Then use it." 

"Oh, _fuck_ \- yes, ma'am-"

She squeezed the back of his neck before he could move. "And don't touch yourself yet. I'll take care of that."

Trevor nodded just before he sealed his mouth over her clit, sliding his tongue along her slick folds. She urged him along, pressing his face against her. His fingers skimmed her calve, her thigh, until he slipped two of them up to match the short strokes of his tongue. She leaned her head back as she dug her nails into his scalp, content to enjoy the gentle glide of his tongue.

Jen couldn't see what Trevor was doing with his free hand, but she figured it out after a couple of minutes of him tonguing her. He'd slipped his hand down between his legs to work himself up, the tip of his cock peeking up flushed and wet from the edge of his fist.

“You’re so fucking disobedient,” Jen groaned, yanking on his hair. Reluctantly, because he certainly had a talented tongue. "What did I just tell you?"

Trevor rested his chin on her thigh, his lips wet from her. “What are you gonna do about it?”

“Make you regret it,” Jen said. She pressed her thumb to his bottom lip and rubbed until he opened his mouth. She slipped her thumb in and let him work the tip with his tongue. “I’m going to fuck you until your knees give out, and I’m not going to let you come until you’re screaming.”

His answering breath came out as a shudder, his groan vibrating her thumb in his mouth. Jen pulled her thumb out of his mouth, a tiny pop echoing from the suction.

"Stand up."

He stood. She kicked his thighs apart with her knee and dropped the tip of her knife to tight ball flushed red to match his cock. The muscles in his thighs corded from the effort not to squeeze them back together. She drug the tip of the knife softly up the seam, up his shaft, then back down in gentle repetitions. He whimpered and twitched, fighting not to buck his hips against her hand, biting down on his lip. 

She squeezed his throat with her free hand, her mouth barely an inch from his, as she continued to stroke him with the edge of the knife. "I could stick you with this knife."

"You could."

"Could mark you up as _mine_ ," she murmured.

"Ain't nothing stopping you."

She smirked up at him, amused. A kidney, part of his liver, his heart - he'd sell literally all of them for that smile. She tossed the knife into the sink, the clanging noise dense and hollow as it reverberated through the room. “You clean, or do we need a condom?”

Trevor looked as though he’d rather dig his own grave than admit, “Uhhhh… condom’s probably smart.”

“Then I suggest you go look in my nightstand.”

Jen had never seen a man run quite that fast, but Trevor brought back the tiny foil packet like he was running the Olympic torch. The eagerness was sweet, she had to admit. She pried it gently from his hands, peeled the foil packet open, and rolled it on him, reminding him to hold still with every movement. He damn near vibrated underneath her touch, unable to keep himself from stroking every part of her he could get his hands on. He grabbed her hips and yanked her closer to the edge of the counter, then hooked her legs around him.

She took him in hand and guided the tip of his cock to her slit, keeping him just barely at bay. Her hand slipped back around his throat, fingertips skimming along the thick tendons to apply pressure while she continued to tease the tip of his cock along her slit. His breath hitched with every movement, punctuated by rough groans and soft pleas to just take pity on him. 

Never one to be particularly merciful, she nevertheless urged him forward by digging her heel into his ass to make him move (not that she really had to make him do anything). "Easy there, darlin'. Keep it steady."

Tense muscles relaxed as he seated himself fully into her deep as he could go, though he was just barely straddling the edge of temptation to snap his hips forward. That, in essence, was the tenuous obedience Jen had been waiting on.

Trevor had graduated from his deep, labored breathing to outright panting. Waiting for her to adjust to his size was as close to torture as he could remember. “Can I move now?” 

“Say please.”

“Fuck - _please_?”

"Get to it, then."

He braced himself against the counter, palms on either side of her hips, and pushed forward hard enough to scoot her back a couple of inches. Her grip on his throat tightened with each movement, every twitch of his hips, everytime he pinched or pulled or grabbed at her. He kept one hand braced next to her while the other skimmed up her stomach, up to grab at her breast. He urged her to lean back so he could bend down and take her nipple between his teeth. 

The rasp of his tongue against her skin was oddly gentle, very nearly reverent, as he moved up from her breast to attach his teeth to the juncture between her throat and collarbone. That was where he stayed, with his head dropped down against her shoulder, his arm around her back to keep her squarely in place, leaving wet kisses everywhere he moved.

“Can you get loud for me?” he groaned, lips pressed to the hollow behind her ear. “I’m so fuckin’ _close_ …”

“You gotta earn it.”

He grabbed her knee and hooked her leg over his shoulder, giving him a deeper angle to work. She was so fucking _tight_ \- he wouldn’t last long enough to get her to really get loud for him. “Oh, I’ll earn it.” 

This angle, though, was more than enough to pull a rough whimper from her throat. His name was almost a demand, an insistent order, for him to move faster, harder, deeper. She yanked his hair so he’d tilt his head back and kissed him, biting his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.

That was all he needed - her cunt clenching down on him, lips moving against his as the only means to keep herself quiet, heel digging into the small of his back as he fucked her. Her hand found his throat again, squeezing, and he was done. He snapped his hips, rhythm stuttering, and drove her back again, panting in her ear once he finished.

Trevor pulled out and tied the condom off, tossing it to the floor. She was just about to give him shit for leaving it on the floor when he cut her off. “Did you finish?”

Jen shook her head.

He dropped down to his knees and pressed his lips to her clit, alternating short, soft licks with deep strokes of his tongue. He caught the faint taste of the condom on his tongue, but that was easy enough to ignore when she was tight, and wet, and her knees were squeezing his head, and she was panting his name with her nails scratching against his scalp. His thumb caught her clit, working in tight circles, until she came all over his tongue.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still kneeling between her legs. The cute little black robe (she might kill him if he said that out loud) splayed all around her and the darkly pink blush spreading over most of her body had him thinking he could go for a second round. Really, if he never had to move again, he could die happy right here on the kitchen floor. “Feel better?”

Jen nodded.

“Need me to stay?”

She shook her head.

Trevor stood up and stretched. “Thought you wanted to slap me around a little?”

Jen laughed, head leaning back against the cabinet behind her, and yeah, that was gonna be burned in his memory for the rest of his life. “Next time, unless you’re feeling extra frisky tonight?”

He’d never cursed his age before, but he certainly was now. Though he was reluctant to admit it, “One and done, I’m afraid.”

She gave him a lingering once-over. “Too bad.”

Hauling her to her feet, he stooped down to kiss her, making sure that every little bit of him was pressed against her. If he was gonna be dreaming about this for the next week, he was gonna make sure she’d be dreaming about him, too.

* * *

Jen had only been to Michael’s house once before, several years ago. They’d had to stop there after a date (when they actually started going on real dates and not just fucking at her apartment). She couldn’t remember why they’d stopped. She hadn’t even walked in. That was part of the arrangement, though; don’t bring this into Michael’s house, don’t stay the night at Jen’s. Easy-peasy. 

Although, it was getting harder for both of them to comply with the arrangement. They’d never been able to stay away from each other, not even when they might have tried otherwise. The problem was that there was no barrier now - no Amanda to, by proxy, keep them in line. Barring their agreement, Michael could stay the night if he wanted because no one was home to cause him a problem. Jen could relax on his couch without concern that someone would walk in (with his unbelievably expensive entertainment center at the tips of her fingers).

All in all, it was a rough time for feelings to come popping up. There was no doubt Michael wanted to get Amanda back. No illusions, no promises. But neither could deny, this no-strict-boundaries thing was a lot more enticing than it should be.

In any case, this was Jen’s first time in Michael’s house. But this was business (mostly). After all, she had a real problem. She’d had a couple of drinks since she wasn’t planning on leaving Michael’s house anytime soon (that entertainment center called her name like a sailor to a fine-ass, extremely expensive siren). And though she usually told Michael about her cases, if only to get his uniquely deviant perspective, she wasn’t used to giving him a full rundown like this.

After giving Michael a synopsis of the Altruist Camp incident, Jen launched into her actual problem. “Long story short, Trevor’s the problem.”

"As usual." Michael dug his fingers into his temples before rubbing his face. “What are you gonna do?”

“Well, I’m not gonna turn him in." Jen swirled her drink around in her glass. She’d already masticated the lime to little more than rind and pulp, and now it was just a bitter mess at the bottom of her gin. "Besides, I don’t even want this case. I’ll give it to the feds and let them run themselves in circles.”

“Won’t it be in the file?”

“Nah. If anyone checks up behind me, all the deeds to the gas station in the chain of possession were falsified or invalid.”

Michael shook his head and pushed his drink out of the way to rest his elbow on the table. He was silent, but Jen could see the vein pulsing in his jaw. When got worked up like this, it was usually easier to just let him bitch about it until he let off enough steam. Trevor plus the FIB equaled a bad time all around where Michael was concerned.

He slammed his fist against the table. “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill Dave for sending him with you.”

“Mike, if Trevor hadn’t been there, I’d be dead.”

“No, you got shot at _because_ Trevor was there. Because can’t keep his mouth shut,” he snapped. “You shouldn’t have been there in the first place!” 

Jen shrugged. “I’m certainly not disagreeing with you, but I have to give credit where credit is due.”

And, now that a week had passed and she was no longer mourning the loss of her Schwartzer, she had to admit blowing up her totaled car had been kind of fun. Obviously, that part got left out of the explanation, along with the election fraud issue. No reason to bring any of that up right now, not when Michael was a solid temper tantrum away from a coronary.

“Oh, I’m calling Dave tomorrow.”

“What’s that gonna do?" she snorted. "The FIB’s got me by the balls just as much as you.”

Well, _Haines_ had her by the balls. Dave was one mishap short of getting blackmailed. 

“I don’t know!” Michael threw his hands up. "If it keeps you from getting shot, I'll do what I have to do!"

Jen held up her hands, entirely done with the conversation. “I’m done talking about this.”

"Fine."

In an effort to disengage as best as she could, Jen coaxed him into the living room and onto the (unbelievably expensive) leather couch. Another drink, and he seemed to be easing up, though the lines in his forehead remained as deep as ever. Best to take his mind off the problem at hand before he blew a gasket.

Jen ducked under his arm and snuggled into his side. A movie and physical affection always worked like a charm. “Wanna watch a movie?”

He smirked. “Is that code for somethin’?”

“It’s code for," Jen paused, grabbing the remote from the arm of the couch, "what movie do you want to watch?”

“Alright, alright,” he replied. He picked a Solomon Richards movie since he was still working his way through the full Richards Majestic vault. Once he decided, he scooped her legs up into his lap. “You wanna stay tonight?”

Jen lifted her head from where she'd burrowed into his thick shoulder. "I'm not sleeping in Amanda's bed."

"We can stay in the guest room? I've been sleeping in there anyway."

"Is me sleeping over really the best idea?"

He squeezed her shoulders. "I just - I don't want you to go."

Jen rested her head back against his shoulder. "Okay. Guest room it is, then."

Michael pressed a kiss to the top of her head, burying his nose in her hair. Curse her stupid heart - her stomach flip-flopped every time he did that. 

"You know we have to talk about this eventually."

"I know." Jen felt him nod against the top of her head, breath tickling her scalp. "Just not tonight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, friends. I moved a long way from home. I start my new job tomorrow. Still hardcore studying for the bar. There's a reason why I write a lot of smut, and this is it. Gotta relax somehow, ya know?
> 
> Next chapter might be a flashback chapter. Defs more smut. Anyway, shit gets real real from here.


	12. Flashback // North Yankton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did somebody say Trikey?
> 
> Doesn't matter - here ya go.

North Yankton is a dead-end. Always has been. For one thing, it’s fucking cold, like all the time. Even in the summer, when everywhere else under the sun is warm and toasty, there’s this layer of permafrost that never seems to fully melt away. It’s certainly not a land of opportunity by any stretch of the imagination. There’s no jobs, unless you want to be a mechanic just like the old man, or a teacher at a garbage school where you barely get paid. There’s no jobs because there’s no big, metropolitan areas. The whole state is a conglomeration of frozen, barren rural towns where nothing grows, including the people.

Michael knows he's gotta get out of here before he ends up like his dad. He doesn't wanna be shut up in some trailer for the rest of his life like the old man, a drunk mechanic with a failing business and a wife who up and vanished before Michael could even crawl. No way, no how. If Michael’s gonna end up a degenerate drunk, he’s gonna make good money to fund the habit first.

He thinks football is his ticket out. Yeah, he’s good. The best. He really thinks he has a shot of making it, of maybe at least walking on to some college team since scouts don’t come up this way. It helps that he’s taller than everyone else and is generally just a bigger guy than all the other guys on the team. He works harder at football than anything he’s ever done, but he fucks up his knee the last game of his senior season. It's not enough to cause him lifelong trauma, but it's more than enough to end the dream of a prospective professional career. Can’t be a competitive player when your knee can give out with just one little misstep.

With a professional football career suddenly out of the question, Michael’s got to figure out what’s next. He's not an idiot - maybe some kind of degree? He's never been a stellar student, but technical school is well within his reach. C’s get degrees, right? Problem is, once that high school diploma is in his hand, continuing with school gets swept right off the table along with his motivation.

He's got no football career in the making, no white-collar career to fall back on, and barely even the prospects of a blue-collar career as a last resort. But Michael has always been the resourceful type, more clever than smart perhaps, but perfectly capable of working his way to the top. 

Michael knows a guy who can get him some work. Brad - the guy was a senior when Michael was a freshman. Piece of shit’s the one who got him hooked on cigarettes. The work is not even remotely legal, but hey, it's better than being an apprentice mechanic in his dad's auto shop. Anything is better than listening to that drunk bastard tell him everything he does is wrong.

Brad finds them a job to do – a run-of-the-mill, basic drug deal. Inevitably, the first job goes badly. The buyer was an undercover cop. Thankfully, Michael wasn’t the one who got caught with the weed in his hand, but he catches some charges nonetheless. He ends up doing six months in the county jail on a misdemeanor because it’s his first conviction and he took a plea. The second time around, he's not so lucky. The second time it goes badly, he’s forking over a few points of heroin, and it's a year and some change in the state penitentiary. 

After he gets out the second time, he gets smart. None of this petty possession with intent bullshit. If he's gonna risk life, limb, and freedom, he's gonna do it his way, and he's gonna make sure the payoff is worth it. Go big or go home, man.

Michael discovers that, without some brain-fried dealer leading him down the wrong path, he's actually got a knack for this work. He's always had charisma, charm - all the tools to get him where he wants to go. Now, he’s got a sense of direction to go along with all that charm. With a little trial and error, he's figured out how to use his natural talents to his advantage, so much so he could con anyone into believing that the sky is purple and birds fly upside down

There's a major dealer just south of the Canadian border who moves bricks of coke every week. It's that sneaky little mouth of Michael's that gets him sitting pretty right next to this guy. That’s where he starts getting supplies for his own operation.

It’s not long before Michael's operation is going strong. He's moving cocaine and meth by the kilo (way better payoff than weed), running whores, even moving on up to smuggling guns. Problem is, he’s got so much business that he can’t move it out fast enough. He figures that a pilot would really round things out. Luckily for him, be it providence or maleficence, Trevor Philips is dropped right into his lap.

Trevor's new - a freshly discharged air force pilot who, yeah, is a little odd. With his unpredictable bursts of temper, burgeoning meth problem, and steadily thinning mullet, he makes a strange choice of a business partner. He's got talent, though, and talent is what Michael needs. 

Michael is the money, Trevor is his enforcer. Within a year, they've got the run of the Canadian border spanning three states. And they are, quite literally, swimming in cash. As in, folding bills, pocket money, dough, lettuce - whatever you want to call it, there’s enough of the green stuff to outweigh the bricks of weed they're shoveling onto every dealer in the tri-state area. There's enough loose change between them to fill the bathtub in the back of the trailer they've been sharing. 

They’re doing so well that they end up catching a special someone’s eye. 

Lester Crest. Lester quickly becomes the brains of the operation - the technical brains, at least. No one can beat Michael’s experience and flair for planning (and his famous way with people, as Lester coins it), but Lester gets them in places they would never have even known existed but for his ingenuity. Lester, bless his heart and soul, is the one who turns them on to bank robbing.

There’s no shortage of crooked banks to hit in North Yankton, and they’re so good at it that every federal agency in the country is looking for them. No one can find them though, thanks to good ol’ Lester. 

Less than five years after Michael’s football dreams were cut short, he ends up running the whole fuckin’ state of North Yankton. Michael, Trevor, and Lester. The terrible trio, give or take a few others like Brad.

Everything Michael touches turns to gold, and man, it's good to be king. 

Ludendorff, North Yankton. They run the little shithole town they all, at different times, crawled out of. Nearly everyone in town is terrified of them - terrified they're going to walk in and do what they do best. They run the town, but they leave it mostly untouched as far as their business ventures go. Rule number one: don’t shit where you eat. 

Besides, there's no shortage of free meals, free drinks, free drugs, and free women (and in Trevor's case, as Michael suspects, though he hasn’t said it out loud, free men). Between Michael’s revolving door of strippers and Trevor’s equally open door of anyone who decides to show up, there’s always someone different sleeping at the trailer. Their doors start to shut, though, when Jackie shows up.

Ah, Jacqueline. She ends up catching both Michael and Trevor’s eye, which isn’t exactly unusual, but this girl is special. She’s a sweet little thing who waits tables at the semi-nice-ish Italian restaurant downtown when she’s not taking classes at the community college. They ask for her every time they go there, and they make sure to tip really, really well when they leave. Even Lester doesn’t have a bad word to say, and he’s the first one to annoy them about their choices.

Michael gets to Jackie first. It’s that famous silver tongue that keeps him on top of every dealer in the tri-state area that ultimately does it. He convinces her that it would be a better use of her time to spend the last hour of her shift schmoozing with the kings of Ludendorff than refilling water glasses. He’s right, of course. He and Trevor will tip her more than she’ll make over the course of her entire shift to make up for it.

Jackie is different from the never-ending line of people filing in and out of the trailer. She doesn’t know what he does for a living (what they do), but he thinks she suspects. It’s not hard to figure out, and besides, she’s smart (not smart enough to stay away from them, unfortunately). She’s classy. Sexy. She curls her hair and wears sensible shoes and politely declines anytime they offer her any of the wares they sell. With Jackie, they even put in the effort to clean (now there’s a shock - Trevor is infamously destructive).

Oddly enough, it doesn’t bother Michael that Trevor has his eye on her, too. Normally, they’re both pretty bad about pissing in their territory to keep people (and each other) out, but again, Jackie’s just different. It might be because she likes them both without preference. It might be because she’s made it pretty clear that even though Trevor hasn’t made his move, she’s in this all or nothing. She wants both of them, or she doesn’t want either one.

It’s the night after they pull off their first bank job that things with Jackie take an… interesting turn. That’s when Trevor gets to her.

And that’s when Michael gets to Trevor.

Jacqueline is so sweet, so pretty, so fucking classy. Michael thinks he might be a little bit in love. Watching her walk into his and Trevor’s shared trailer is better than any dream he’s ever had. Trevor’s on the couch with Michael, swigging a beer and watching her walk in with the kind of dumbstruck look that must have been directly mirrored on Michael’s face. She’s tall and statuesque, with this long, dark hair that Michael can’t help but fantasize about running his fingers through whenever he sees her. She laughs at their dumbstruck faces, just tells them to close their mouths and come get some food. She’s brought three or four loaded plates of food left over from the restaurant and a bottle of wine. 

After she opens that bottle of wine, the food winds up in the fridge, untouched for now. 

Michael’s never really been, uh, concerned about Trevor being in the room while he’s banging some girl. But again, Jacqueline is different. It’s Jackie’s idea for Trevor to join in, Jackie’s idea for Michael to watch them together for a while. It’s Jackie’s idea to direct the two of them to do as she asks. 

Michael’s never complied with anything more willingly in his life, and that scares the hell out of him. He finds himself enamored by both of them, not just Jacqueline, though he tries not to dwell on that for too long. The idea of participating, of getting right there in between them – well, he’ll find out what it’s like soon enough.

Trevor’s half-drunk, overstimulated groans are quickly cut short by Jackie’s order to have him suck Michael off. Michael panics for a second, a sluggish, cold wave that floods the pit of his stomach, but as soon as Trevor starts, all panic fades.

Michael has to clamp his hand down over his mouth to keep himself from make the absolute lewdest noises ever to come out of his throat, in part because Jacqueline is watching so intently and in part because Trevor is fucking good at this. The crawling awkwardness that comes with the realization that his best friend has his dick in his mouth is completely overtaken by the sheer talent of Trevor’s tongue. 

Michael panics again when he gets close to coming and manages to coax Trevor into backing off. There’s something electric in the air, something Michael doesn’t want to name, as Trevor looks up at him from the floor, lips shiny, face flushed. And there’s something dark in Trevor’s amber eyes, something almost submissive - something that makes Michael want to bite and scratch and take. The electricity is amplified as Jackie takes her rightful place on Michael’s lap and fucks him stupid as Trevor continues to watch from his spot on the floor, still with that same electric something behind his eyes.

They finish off a case of beer to go along with the bottle of wine and dig into the food that has long since gone cold and has to be reheated in the ramshackle microwave. After they finish off the leftovers, it’s not long before they start to get drowsy. Within the hour, Michael’s the only one left awake, with Jacqueline dozing quietly under one arm and Trevor snoring like a demon under the other.

In his shitty trailer, in godforsaken dead-end North Yankton, surrounded by piles of drugs and money in equal measure, with a full stomach and two people who were more than happy to suck his dick, Michael feels like a king.

* * *

Michael’s not pleased to be sleeping in Trevor’s disastrous pig-pen of a trailer, not in the least. Trevor’s dragged out an extra mattress from storage (Michael tries not to think about where he might have gotten it from) that smells like testicle sweat and dust. The window unit rattling between in the discolored trimming barely puts out enough cold air to make the bedroom bearable. Trevor snores like the devil even after all these years.

Not that Trevor is snoring right now. He’s talking, like he’s been doing nonstop for the past hour. 

“You, uh, ever think about Jacqueline?”

Michael can honestly say that, yeah, he does. He named his fucking yacht after her, for God’s sake. He thinks about that girl every time he walks onto the deck.

“Sometimes. Why?

Trevor shrugged. The springs in his mattress creak, complaining in that rusty way that makes Michael wonder how old that mattress is. Trevor doesn’t seem to notice. “Wonder what she’s doing these days.”

“I don’t know,” Michael replies, turning over so that he’s facing the wall. On second thought, he’d rather face Trevor than the wall, lest he gag at the floor molding. He grew up in a trailer just like this. When did he get so pretentious? “I’m sure Lester can find her if you ask him.”

Trevor, ever relentless, peers down over the lip of his mattress. He’s about a foot higher off the ground than Michael is; it wouldn’t take much for him to roll off the bed and squish him. “You’re not even the least bit curious?” 

God, it’s hot. Isn’t the desert supposed to be cold at night? It’s probably because Trevor’s bedroom is tiny, and neither one of them are small. Two grown men shoved into a bedroom the size of Michael’s closet at home - no wonder it’s hot. Maybe he could drag his mattress over to the window unit, just sleep with his back against the wall and his head next to the dripping, screeching air conditioner.

“No reason to be,” Michael replies as sweat beads at his hairline and drips down the back of his neck. “I’m married.”

Trevor snorts. “Yeah, because that’s always mattered so much to you. Didn’t you name your boat after her?”

Yes, he did, in fact. It’s on the property records and everything. Michael’s still not going to rise to the bait, though. The less he talks, the more likely Trevor will give up and let him sleep.

Michael makes the better choice for once in his life and ignores Trevor’s comment, true as it may be. “What’s got you thinkin’ about Jackie?”

Trevor shrugs again, to the screeching protest of the tortured mattress springs. “Can’t an old man reminisce?”

“Interesting topic to reminisce about.”

“Fond memories of simpler times.” Trevor crosses his arms over his stomach, far too keyed up to sleep. He’s been thinking about Jen for the past week, on the verge of just showing up at her apartment to try his luck. Invariably, daydreaming about having Jen peg him led his treacherous reptilian brain to fond memories of Jackie doing exactly that. “Sometimes I miss the days before you abandoned me. You ever miss her?”

Michael couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something at the back of his brain told him that Trevor wanted something. He had a few guesses as to what it might be, but he only had a few dwindling excuses left to deny him. As long as Trevor didn’t ask to go find Jackie, or go visit Brad in prison, or bring it up for the thousandth time that Michael abandoned him (too late for that one), Michael could manage to pull some kind of half-hearted excuse out of his ass.

“You know, I have a feeling I know where this is going, but I’m gonna let it play out,” Michael says, turning and lifting himself up onto his elbow. Nope, no, he could see right under Trevor’s bed. Nope, that is a thousand times worse than the floor molding. Would it be too much of an imposition to beg Trevor to clean? Or hire someone to do it for him? Michael doesn’t care - that gonna be the first thing on his agenda Monday morning. “What’s with all the questions?”

“Well,” Trevor starts, in his Trevor way, like he’s introducing the grand plan of a novel, “since I’m currently living it up in Los Santos right now and you’ve been dumped by your wife, I figure we could get ourselves another Jacqueline.”

“We’re too old for another Jacqueline, T.”

“Come on, don’t tell me you forgot about-”

“I haven’t forgotten anything,” Michael snaps. He lives with the knowledge every day that maybe if he’d been able to keep his dick out of anything that walked by, he wouldn’t be in the mess he’s in now.

Trevor is silent for about two minutes, during which time Michael has almost, almost, gotten comfortable, despite the sweat pooling in a puddle beneath him. He hopes that Trevor has given up, though he knows better than to think Trevor would ever, ever, let anything go. Especially not this.

Trevor peeks over the edge of the mattress again. He is obviously just as hot and sweaty as Michael, though he doesn’t appear to be as uncomfortable. “You think Jen would want to…?”

“Ah, there it is,” Michael scoffs. “Go to bed, T. We gotta go do that thing for Madrazo in the morning.”

Trevor disappears from the lip of the bed, once again crushing the mattress springs. Someone should really get an audio recording of that - it sounds like a flock of geese in a fight to the death. “All I’m saying is think about it.”

"Right."

Silence overtakes the room, and for a while, Michael’s sure Trevor’s gone to sleep. He’s right there, right on the precipice of a fitful, moist slumber, when Trevor opens his mouth again. This time, Michael can’t hold back a groan, which Trevor resolutely ignores.

"Jen reminds me of Jackie."

Trevor’s rough voice still never fails to send a shiver down Michael’s spine, no matter what he might be talking about, no matter how annoyed Michael may be. It happens without fail. 

"I cannot think of two people more dissimilar than Jen and Jackie."

Michael can almost see Trevor rolling his eyes. He can definitely hear Trevor’s exasperated sigh. "I'm not talking about tits and ass here, Mikey."

“I’m not either.”

“It’s the confidence, man,” Trevor says, and there’s a softness to his voice that Michael didn’t even realize he’s missed. “She’s brilliant.”

“Go to sleep, Trevor.” 

Michael rolls back over to glare at the putrid molding, resigned to his fate for the night. At least it’s only one night, right? No more sleeping on the dusty ballsack-smelling old mattress. Never again would he have to get an eyeful of what’s under Trevor’s bed (empty liquor bottles and burned metal spoons and used needles and a whole rainbow of used condoms and condom wrappers). Is this what their place in North Yankton used to look like? Jesus, it’s a miracle they got anybody to fuck them in that trailer.

Still, Michael supposed he could ignore the grit and grime. He’s done it plenty of times before. And there’s something to be said for having Trevor back, even if he’s still on edge. He’s concerned about why Trevor’s voice still sends that sharp tingle from his neck to the base of his spine, why the softness in his voice is almost enticing. Michael knows damn good and well why, but he’s elected to repress that way, way, way down into the inner folds of his psyche, where it should have always stayed.

Michael’s right back on the edge of sleep again when he says. “And yeah, I still miss Jackie sometimes.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a little shorter than usual - things will be back to normal next chapter. I'm very tired. The bar exam got pushed back AGAIN. I feel like I've run a marathon every single day for the past five months (just like everyone else, I know, I know). I wish I could just write smut for a living.
> 
> That being said, I realized when I was editing what was ~supposed to have been~ this chapter, everything would tie up a little more neatly with some flashback and filler. So, yeah. I whipped this up. Things are taking off.


	13. Main Mission // Mrs. Madrazo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The problems keep coming and they don't stop coming, much like the years, per Smashmouth.

Karen and John, the IAA agents, pulled Jen out of the office that morning to take her down to IAA headquarters. She went without a fight, much to the surprise of everyone in the office. They were expecting a blowout fight, especially because the two agents barged in without so much as a _hello_. Normally, she’d have been a little mouthier with them, but even she realized she had to take this seriously - whether the investigation was real or not. Hence, the willingness to come quietly along.

Clearly, Jen’s mandatory invitation to the IAA was public knowledge. It took less than thirty seconds from the time she sat in her (brand spankin’ new) car for her phone to start blowing up. Haines’ name flashed in bold across her screen, a not-so-gentle reminder that he hadn’t done his job properly. Jen hit ignore every time he redialed. Instead of dealing with Haines, she called her own lawyer in preparation for whatever Karen and John were about to do to her. She knew better than to show up without (helpful) backup.

Once Jen arrived downtown at the IAA building, she wasted no time charging into the lobby, her heels clicking furiously against the tile as she stalked through the front door. Haines and Dave showed up in Dave’s sedan not long after Jen and just before Karen and Dave pulled up.

The two agents were followed closely behind by Jen’s own lawyer, Richard (no relation to Richards Majestic). Richard was one of those buff dude-bro types with the San Andreas fake tan; he was mostly there for looks. She wouldn’t have hired him if (1) he wasn’t one of the best lawyers in the state and (2) she kind of needed a good lawyer right now. And, yeah, Richard fits the bill well. He’s good at what he does. Like, really good. Good enough to remind her, gently, not to back-talk the two people who could ruin her career, not that she needed to be reminded that John and Karen could ruin her.

Haines and Dave had to stay outside, much to Jen’s personal satisfaction. Karen and John were quick to tell them to stay in the lobby while they led Jen and Richard into the inner guts of the IAA. She cackled quietly to herself, prompting Richard to give her a concerned glance; watching Karen and John spoil their fun would keep her in a good mood for the rest of the day, despite her own predicament.

Richard pulled Jen aside before they walked into the interrogation room. “I know you know what to say. I’ll be right here. What do you need from me?”

“I need you to take notes and look pretty,” Jen said, stepping past him. “You’re gonna slap ‘em with the defamation suit after this is all cleared up.”

“I don’t know if we can do that, but I’ll take care of it if we can.”

“And that’s why you’re the best at what you do, Rich.”

Karen put them in a backroom with a table and four chairs. It wasn’t one of the real interrogation rooms, like the warehouse the FIB likes to put people in. The real IAA interrogation rooms are far below ground where there’s no light, no hope, and no means of escape. This room was just situated to look like a real interrogation room. There was a security camera in the upper corner of the room, trained on them like they were about to star in a shitty procedural cop show. The room was definitely mic'd-up, too, but she couldn’t see where the mics were. 

Karen and John sat across the table from her wearing matching solemn expressions. Jen fought the urge to roll her eyes. You’d think they’d give up on the posturing considering their victim for the day was the fuckin’ DA.

“We’re required to tell you that you’re not under arrest and you can leave the room at any time, Miss Dixon.” John reclined back in his chair. Obviously, Karen was going to be taking the lead here. “But fewer bathroom breaks mean you’ll get out of here quicker.”

Karen slapped a file down on the table in a fine impersonation of every single police officer Jen had ever met. “You need to tell us everything you know about what the FIB is doing.”

“What is this, CIS: Vice City?” Jen grunted when Richard kicked her under the table. “And by that, I mean, what can I do to help you, agents?”

Karen fixed her with an even glare. “All you have to do is tell us that the FIB tampered with the voting equipment to get you elected, and we’ll take it from there.”

“I don’t know what business the FIB conducts, as I am not an FIB agent and therefore am not privy to the goings-on of its agents.” Jen returned Karen’s glare with her own cool stare. “I ran a fair race.”

John chimed in, surprisingly. Jen thought he was almost asleep. “You graduated from law school less than ten years ago from an out-of-state school. No connections, nothing to make you important. There’s no way you could have beaten the incumbent DA.”

“Uh, we live in _Los Santos_.” Richard kicked her again, but she ignored him. “Our mayor used to be an offshore hedge-fund manager, and the president of the fuckin’ country is an actor _who’s still acting_. The people of Los Santos don’t care that I can tie my own shoes or walk and chew gum at the same time as long as my tits are still perky.”

“Be that as it may,” Karen snapped, “there are standards for these things, and you didn’t meet the requirements.”

“I cleared every qualification check, I have the required education, and I’ve been an attorney for the statutory length of time.” Jen cocked her head. “What part of that doesn’t meet the requirements to run for this office?”

“Did the FIB just send you on through?”

“Why don’t you shitbags go bother Haines and Dave and let me do my job? You should be on my side, anyway. I’ve been passing you the big cases and dealing with your messes for years-”

This time, Richard didn’t bother to kick her under the table. He cut in to keep her from opening her mouth again. “Can we wrap up this line of questioning? Miss Dixon has already expressed that she is unaffiliated with the FIB.”

John snorted. “You gonna answer for her, Rich?”

Richard knew well and good that he had to let her answer the questions, so he bit his lip and backed off. He looked over at Jen, pleading silently for her to keep herself in check. Really, please, dealing with her already made his job is hard enough, and she’s just making it harder every time she makes one of her unnecessary comments.

Jen caught the hint, not that it was hard to catch. “My attorney has recommended that I assert my rights to keep my mouth shut, which is what I’ll be doing for the duration of the interview.”

“You’re not gonna answer our questions?” Karen asked, pursing her lips. Her grandstanding was atrocious, but between her and John, it was her head on the chopping block if she didn’t get Jen to rat out Haines and Dave. “You won’t even throw your babysitters under the bus.”

“I assert my Fifth Amendment rights in light of your question.”

“You _sure_ you wanna keep tiptoeing around this?”

Jen glanced over at Richard, who looked like he was going to have an aneurysm if she didn’t keep her mouth shut. “I have the right to do so.”

Karen rolled her eyes. “Fine. There’s no point in you being here, then.”

Karen grabbed her thin files and left the room, John following right behind her, yawning like he’d rather be anywhere else. They’d gone through all the trouble to get her there that morning and had nothing to show for it. They’d expected as much, but it still didn’t make things easier on them. There was nothing to find – they just needed her to cave and spill the beans on everything Haines had been doing with Mr. K. Covering up their actions by harassing her should have been an easy cover, and it was common knowledge that Haines was on Jen’s shit list. She should have been downright singing for them.

There’s something to be said for loyalty, it seems.

Jen followed Richard out the front door of the building, blowing right past Dave and Haines. She’d have to keep ignoring Haines’ phone calls for the rest of the day, but she’d call Dave later to help with damage control.

Richard stopped her at her car. He was clearly not pleased with his client’s behavior. “I thought you knew what to say!”

Jen scoffed at him. “I do. I said everything I needed to say.”

“You can’t talk to the IAA like you do to opposing counsel,” Richard huffed. “These people will arrest you for breathing in their general direction.”

“They can’t arrest me because I didn’t do anything. Gotta have probable cause, Rich.”

“Oh, you know better than that.”

Jen had an answer for him right on the tip of her tongue, but whatever it was got lost as her phone started to ring. Huh, she thought she turned the ringer off that morning. Normally, she’d just ignore the call, but the name on the face of her phone wasn’t ignorable. Holding up a finger, she stepped away from Richard to answer the call.

“Lester Crest,” Jen hummed. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Glad to hear you’re in a good mood,” Lester observed, clearing his throat. “You’re not going to be for long.”

“What happened now?”

“Are you in a place where you can get up to Sandy Shores?”

“Yes,” Jen hesitated. “Why? What’s happening in Sandy Shores?”

“Your boyfriends aren’t coming back to Los Santos anytime soon,” Lester replied, sounding just a little too pleased for Jen’s liking. “Franklin’s going to swing by to pick you up. You’ll need to call him and let him know your location.”

Jen sighed and rubbed her temples. These men were going to be the death of her. And bless Franklin - he had to deal with their shenanigans way more than she did. “Should I expect the worst? Has anyone been killed or maimed?”

“Eh, maybe roughed up a little. Madrazo put a hit out on both of them.” 

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“I wish I was,” Lester replied. Jen could hear him smashing his fingers against his keyboard, searching for who-knows-what. “Something went sideways on a job he contracted them to do. Not sure what happened yet, but I’m entrusting you and Franklin to find that out.”

“Oh, I can’t wait. Is Madrazo not sending people up to Sandy Shores?” She paused. “Am I gonna have to shoot someone again? Because I didn’t handle that well the first time.”

“You’re probably not going to have to shoot anyone – not unless you get trigger happy with Trevor or Michael. No, it looks like the hit only applies to Los Santos. It’s probably just meant to keep them from going home, and thus cut off from their resources,” Lester said. He didn’t sound all that sympathetic, and Jen could concur. They made their own bed, and now they had to lie in it. “I noticed you didn’t deny the _boyfriends_ thing.”

“Well, Michael _is_ my boyfriend. If I can really call a forty-five-year-old man my boyfriend, I mean.”

“I said _boyfriends_ , as in multiple. Trevor was at your apartment for a pretty long time the other night, wasn’t he?”

Jen snorted. “You seem to know something you shouldn’t. Like usual.”

Lester snickered. “Avoiding the question, counselor?”

“It’s what I do best. I guess you’re tracking them?”

“I’m tracking all of you. Makes life easier.”

Jen really, really liked Lester. Bless him, too, right along with Franklin.

“I’ll let that slide as long as you can keep other people from tracking me.” Jen shifted the phone to her other hand so she could wave goodbye to Richard and climb into her car. “Think you can handle that, Mr. Crest? Or is that outside your skillset?”

Jen could just picture Lester rolling his eyes on his end of the phone. “I know what you’re doing, and it’s working. I’ll put a block on your phone.”

“Thank you very much, Les. I’ll let you keep that wiretap you’ve got going at University of Los Santos’s cybersecurity lab.”

“I like you, counselor.”

* * *

Franklin picked Jen up outside of her apartment. She would have had him pick her up at the Cluckin' Bell down the street from the IAA building, but she didn't feel like leaving her new Jester out in the open. She'd never owned anything that expensive, so she was more inclined to take care of it than her old Schwartzer (which was now, according to Trevor, a charred hunk of metal rusting at the bottom of a lake).

Since Trevor and Michael essentially skipped town to get away from Madrazo’s men, Franklin and Jen had to make the four-hour drive up to Blaine County to meet them. When they arrived at Trevor’s derelict - and getting steadily grosser - trailer, they found the owner of said trailer standing outside in the desert sun, screaming at Michael, who was screaming back at him fit to beat the devil. The fussing pair were accompanied by Trevor’s paranoid neighbor and an older Latina female who seemed oddly comfortable even though her mouth was taped over.

Franklin pulled up outside the chain-link fence. "What the hell is happening here?"

Jen almost didn't want to get out of the car. "Trevor's done something stupid, I'm guessing."

"Or Michael pissed him off again."

The screaming outside of the trailer was only getting louder, and this time, it was punctuated by Ron's nervous fretting.

"It kind of sounds like we're both right," Jen replied. She looked over at Franklin. "Why did we have to come up here in the first place anyway?"

"Because we're the only ones dumb enough to put up with this shit."

"You're goddamn right about that," Jen said. She reached under her seat for her purse and dropped her phone and keys in. "Let's go calm them down, I guess. And figure out what the deal is with the woman."

Franklin shook his head. "You'd think Trevor'd at least take the tape off her mouth."

"I don't know, Trevor's so used to seeing people with the tape on, he probably forgets it's not natural."

Franklin crossed the gate first. Both Trevor and Michael paused mid-sentence to greet him before resuming the screaming match. Jen followed close behind him and settled herself on Michael's right side, directly between him and Ron. Franklin did the same thing on Trevor's side, creating the dividing line between him and Michael.

Ever the mediator and the voice of reason, Franklin held up his hands. "Can one of you please just tell me what's happening?"

The screaming match started again, with both Trevor and Michael trying to yell over the other. Finally, Franklin just pointed his finger at Michael. "What is going on?"

"Oh, of course you want Work Dad to tell you what's going on!" Trevor snapped, throwing his hands up. "Because those facts aren't unbiased at all."

Jen raised her eyebrows at him. "Trevor, you'll get your turn, too. We just want to know why we had to drive all the way up here."

Michael never learned how to lower his voice growing up, and he doesn't have the presence of mind to do it now. "Trevor kidnapped Madrazo's wife and now the old fucker's got a hit out on us!"

Trevor shrugged and nodded. "Actually, that pretty well sums it up.

Jen could see more than a few neighbors peeking out from between their blinds out of the corner of her eye, which told her they'd probably better go inside before the whole street came to watch the show. "Why don't we go inside and discuss this, boys?"

Trevor ushered them in and slammed the door behind them. The trailer had been crowded enough the last time Jen had been there when it was just Trevor, herself, and Ron. The addition of three more people made it feel more like a closet than a home.

Trevor took the lapse in conversation as an opportunity to introduce his hostage. "This is Patricia."

Michael planted himself on the living room couch. "She's so fucking bored out here that she's already cleaned this place. Imagine that - the hostage is bored."

Patricia shrugs, and something about that simple movement tells Jen that this probably isn't the first time Patricia Madrazo has been in this particular situation, albiet with less dangerous and less weird kidnappers. There wasn't much else she could do around the trailer other than clean or watch TV anyway since Trevor didn't seem to give a shit. Trevor trained his eyes on the older woman while Michael and Franklin watched with mild discomfort.

Jen gingerly leaned against the edge of Trevor's kitchen counter. She'd meticulously chosen the cleanest part of the counter she could see. The trailer was still filthy, despite Patricia's alleged attempts to clean it. The kitchen counter was no different; while it wasn't sticky as it usually was, there was still ground-in filth wedged into the tile grout and discoloration from who-knew-what staining the tile.

Jen chewed the inside of her cheek and folded her arms across her stomach. "Well, boys, ya fucked up."

"Can you just start yelling and get it over with?" Michael asked, fixing her with a distressed stare. "And I didn't fuck up - Trevor fucked us both."

"I did the right thing by taking Patricia with me," Trevor snapped. "Madrazo's a piece of shit."

"Well, Trevor, you're not wrong about Madrazo," Jen said. Ah, yes, there's the rising anger deep in her stomach. It's the kind of anger she used to fuel herself every morning. "What the fuck were you two thinking getting into bed with that shitstain Martin Madrazo like that? Taking out a star witness in a federal case? Kidnapping the scumbag's wife?" Jen held out her hand in submission to Patricia. "No offense to you, Ms. Madrazo. I realize you had no bearing in your husband's affairs."

The older woman nodded. Trevor had taken off the tape once they'd entered the trailer. "Oh, none taken. Please continue, dear."

"Thank you, ma'am," Jen replied, turning back to the boys. "I did some digging on the long, lovely drive up to good ol' Sandy Shores. He's got a hit out on you like you wouldn't fucking believe. It took me, Franklin, and Lester half the favors we have combined to figure out where all the heat was coming from. Every gang in the city is looking for you."

"Well, what can we do? Trevor kidnapped his fucking wife!" Michael snapped, flinging his hands up. "Is he gonna send his boys up here to look for us?"

Trevor growled deep in the back of his throat. "Ms. Madrazo has nothing to do with this!"

"Shut the fuck up, both of you! I'm not even close to done talking," Jen yelled, causing the three men to jump again. She bit her bottom lip, pulling at the chapped skin with her teeth. "No, they're not coming up to Blaine County. They'd be in Azteca territory, and that would cause a problem between Madrazo and Ortega. But you two sure as hell aren't going back to Los Santos anytime soon."

"So where do we go from here?" Michael asked, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. The space between his eyebrows furrowed, and he suddenly looked every day of his forty-five years.

Jen had never seen him back down from someone yelling at him, nor Trevor for that matter, but she assumed they understood the gravity of the situation. She similarly lowered her voice. "Well, you two will have to stay up here in Blaine County until it's safe. Paleto Bay is fine, the mountains are fine, but if you set foot in Los Santos, Madrazo's men will hunt you down and kill you, and there will be nothing Lester, Franklin, or I could do to save you."

"I'm not afraid of any of these fuckers," Trevor snapped, jumping to his feet. He stalked the length of the trailer (which was maybe only twenty feet, minus the space taken up by the six people currently crowding his living room). "I'll take every last one of them out, just like the Lost MC," he snorted, "and those inbred O'Neal brothers. I thinned that herd no problem. They can't do shit to me and they're not taking Patricia back to that hellhole."

"If you think you’d get away from a Martin Madrazo-brand assault, you’re an idiot. I understand that you think you're the Invincible Mr. Philips," Jen said, turning the intensity of her glare on him, "and maybe sometimes you are, but you’re not an idiot. Madrazo had you take out an entire jet plane with one gun. You have no idea how deep his pull runs - it doesn't matter if he's about to go to jail or not. The feds are doing everything they can as we speak to stack up another set of witnesses against him. I need all three of you to stay alive, and the only way that's going to happen is if you two lay low for now and let me, Franklin, and Lester do damage control until we figure out what to do."

Michael hummed. "You know, T…"

"What?" Trevor and Jen snapped simultaneously. They traded a glance of understanding.

Franklin rubbed his temples; no amount of painkillers could kill this kind of headache.

Michael sighed and shook his head. He had a temper and he knew it, but Trevor's was worse and Jen could give them all a run for their money when she had a mind to (like now). "This may be a good time to plan that test heist…"

Trevor opened his mouth to speak, but Jen beat him to the punch and cut him squarely off. "You know what? Please find a bank to rob out here in the sticks. Rob a liquor store, a gas station, hell, sacrifice some hitchhikers to whatever's left of the Altruists for all I care. Anything to keep y'all busy while I deal with your problems again and mine."

"Hell yeah!" Trevor yelped, finally on board with something. "Tell Lester to get off his ass and - wait, who's giving you a problem?"

Michael cocked his head. "You haven't mentioned anyone giving you problems?"

Franklin raised his eyebrows. "You're talking about that election tampering shit, right?"

Jen nodded. "Yeah, that. Agency's been snooping around in the poll stats for the past few weeks. I was actually in the middle of being interrogated before we drove up here."

Franklin shook his head. "You gotta watch the news more often, man."

"You got Lester on it yet?" Michael asked, his voice dark. That old protective streak had already gotten him into too much trouble, but he couldn't help it.

"He's looking into it," Jen replied curtly. "There's nothing for them to find and the Agency knows it, so I'm sure they'll try to plant something. I've got your buddy Davey looking into it, too."

"He can do something about that?" Michael asked, incredulous. Dave Norton was essentially useless, but for that little wily streak that made him very, very dangerous. "I didn't think that kind of _cloak-and-daggers_ subterfuge was his area of expertise."

"It's not," Jen said, rubbing her temples. She wished he'd leave it alone, since now he had Franklin and Trevor's protective streaks revving up. "But Steve Haines wants to keep me in my position-"

"Yeah, I'll bet that turd wants to keep you in a few positions alright," Trevor growled, clenching his fists. "Oh, just another reason to let me get my hands on him."

"You're right about that." Jen grimaced. Nothing about Steve Haines was even remotely appealing - not his crunchy, gelled hair, not his Golf Dad frat boy aesthetic, not his dimple butt chin. "Point being, I make their job easier and I'm traceable back to you, so Haines and Dave are gonna keep me where I am, even though they've done a pretty shitty job as of late. Haines is a sneaky little bastard, but when he wants something, he goes all in to get it and keep it. It'll get handled."

Michael scratched the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. "If you even think you smell something fishy coming for you, you come back up here, alright? If we can't get into Los Santos to protect you, you're gonna have to come to us."

"I don't need protection. I've got cops circling my building day and night," Jen replied, but she sighed anyway. Even if she didn't feel like she needed protection, it wouldn't hurt to have them as backup. She didn't trust the cops to do their job anyway.

Trevor sat back down on the couch next to Michael. "Well, I think you should come stay with us here anyway. There's room on my bed for three."

"Room for three?" Jen sniffed. "Who? You, Mike, and Mr. Raspberry Jam? Don't worry, I'll be fine all by myself."

"Oh, I bet you would," Trevor replied, his voice low and lecherous.

“Can you shut up about that, T?” Michael snapped. “Jesus, we talked about this!”

Jen paused and looked at them strangely. What had they been talking about? Surely not her?

Franklin huffed. "Man, I did not need that image in my head."

"Me either, Frank," Jen said. "Let's get out of here. We need to get back home before it gets late."

Franklin got up and followed her to the door. He had his own problems to deal with, and as usual, now he's gotta deal with Trevor's and Michael's problems, too.

Michael followed the both of them to the door and kissed Jen goodbye, making her promise to be careful.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm always careful. Y'all don't do anything stupid," Jen said, giving Michael's hand a gentle squeeze. She followed Franklin out to the car and ducked her head out of the window once she’d climbed in. "And if any Agency fuckers come skulking around asking questions, tell them I don't know y'all and I just come up here for the anonymous group orgies. Wouldn't be the weirdest thing going on in our local government."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the first time in, uuuuhhhhh, a hot fuckin' minute, I finally feel productive. Probably something to do with the bar exam getting pushed AGAIN, all the way to OCTOBER. SO, I'm shirking my responsibilities like the dumpster fire of a human being that I truly am. I've written more than 10k words in the past two days alone, and if you like The Last of Us, I wrote some nifty Joel smut you can check out.
> 
> Also, no worries, there's some more smut coming up here presently. Did somebody say threesomes?


	14. Strangers & Freaks // Lester

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did somebody say threesome?

Michael hadn’t exactly planned to lend a hand to Trevor Philips Enterprises, but lo and behold, he was once again rinsing blood out from under his fingernails in the spigot behind Trevor’s trailer.

Those fuckin’ O’Neal brothers. Trevor didn’t get rid of all of them the first time he razed their farmhouse to the ground, and they’d come back with a vengeance. They’d had to hunt down the remaining three brothers when the hillbillies tried to bolt through the woods. One of them (who knows which one) managed to get hold of Michael just before he’d been shot in the back of the head by Franklin in the chopper.

Trevor, of course, was ecstatic when they arrived back at his trailer. The last of his competition was gone, save for the Chinese syndicate. He’d hooted and hollered all the way back to Sandy Shores, proud as he could be to have slaughtered the entire family. Michael didn’t see the appeal, but nor did he care that he’d put a bullet in one of them himself.

The minute they’d returned back to the trailer, Trevor had gone off on one of his walks with Patricia Madrazo. Michael also didn’t see the appeal in a murderous drug lord’s sixty-year-old wife, but Trevor had always been weird when it came to his unrelenting infatuation with anyone unlucky enough to catch his attention.

Actually, Trevor had been weirder than usual, which was saying something since he’s always been fuckin’ weird. He’d take his long walks with Patricia and return positively skipping with joy. Michael hadn’t even been insulted or mildly accosted when he had been forced to go along with Trevor to check on Chef’s contributions to Trevor Philips Enterprises (tons of the most impeccable meth).

Michael concluded that a happy Trevor was more unnerving than a Trevor who wanted to string him up by his toes and cut off his balls.

Yet despite Trevor’s newfound infatuation with Patricia Madrazo, he still hadn’t given up on convincing Michael to share Jen – an idea that had left Michael on edge the past few weeks. Trevor would bring it up casually, just to see if he could trip Michael up. He’d lament on just how good Jen looked last time she drove up to Sandy Shores, how Michael couldn’t possibly be enough for her. In sharp contrast to the ever-simmering temper, Michael managed to just ignore him or flat-out told him no, but Trevor was relentless all the same. And, as they both well knew, when Trevor gets an idea in his mind, he doesn’t let it go.

Michael couldn’t put his finger on why he was reluctant. As possessive as Michael could be, he’d never really had a problem sharing when it came to casual sex. And it’s not like he and Trevor didn’t have a history of _sharing_. Quite the opposite, in fact. They’d shared other people, shared each other – hadn’t been much of a problem back in the day.

 _Casual_. And that’s what this was with him and Jen, right? He did his thing, she did hers – no questions asked. Same as it had always been. Same as it had been with Trevor all those years ago. Good, casual, extramarital fuckin’, with no strings attached.

So why was he so reluctant?

Because it’s _Jen_ , and Michael doesn’t want to share.

Michael is, all things considered, right down to the deepest parts of himself, notoriously, vehemently _jealous_. He knows it. His therapist told him that. Fuckin’ _Amanda_ told him that every day. Frankly, he’d always either been too jealous about his partners or didn’t care at all. He hadn’t been that way with _Amanda_ at first, but he’d become that way. But whatever their arrangement, whatever he or Jen did with anyone else, Michael had _always_ been that way with Jen. Whether she knew or whether he wanted to admit it, Jen was _Jen_ , and Jen had always been different.

Besides, Michael didn’t know if Jen would even be up for something like that. He’d never asked, and she hadn’t asked him, either. When they were together, it was just _them_ – he’d never _wanted_ to share.

But, on the other hand, it might be fun to do something different, even if it’s with Trevor. Even if he told himself he wouldn’t get involved like _that_ with Trevor again.

What’s the harm, all the way out here in the desert?

And that was, once again, the topic of conversation for tonight: sharing Jen. Or, more accurately, Trevor sharing Michael and Jen.

Michael wiped his wet hands on his pants. The pants were already ruined, so he didn’t much care if he got anything on them. He inspected his hands and found that he still had dried blood under his nails. The blood, dark and grainy, had collected down close to the quick where the water couldn’t reach.

Trevor had been similarly hosing himself down just over the fence in Ron’s yard, having just returned from his walk with Patricia Madrazo. He’d just stripped down to his underwear, completely bereft of shame, and tossed his clothes in Ron’s laundry basket to be cleaned. Once he was sufficiently drenched and marginally less bloody, he hopped back over the fence to invade Michael’s space once more.

“You still checking your manicure?” Trevor asked, leaning right down into Michael’s space. He stuck his head up under the spigot and opened his mouth, letting the water run down his throat, before drenching his hair. “Too pretentious to get your hands dirty?”

“Fuck you.”

Trevor grabbed a pair of his threadbare sweats and one of his infamous white t-shirts down from the laundry line outside the door and pulled them on. “I keep asking and you keep saying _noooo_ …”

“Give it a fuckin’ rest, T,” Michael snapped, shaking his head. He stomped up onto the front porch and took a seat on the top porch step. “I’m not getting into this with you today.”

Trevor gestured down at himself vaguely. “Seems like getting’ into _this_ today would do you some good.”

Yeah, Trevor had long since given up on subtlety, if he’d ever been subtle (he hadn’t been). The only way to _maybe_ head this off would be to change the subject.

Michael leaned back onto the porch, elbows resting on the wooden planks. “You’re in a good mood.”

“How could I be in anything but?” Trevor asked brightly – borderline manically. “We took out the last of my competition, I had a _wonderful_ afternoon walk with Mrs. Madrazo, your pretentious man-manicure is ruined, and Jen’s coming up this weekend? I haven’t felt this good since I spent three days stuck in a lighthouse on speed!”

“I wish you were still stuck in that lighthouse.”

“Ah, but then you wouldn’t be able to see my beautiful face every day when you wake up.”

“That’s the dream.”

Once again, changing the subject proved a failure.

Trevor took a seat on the porch steps right next to Michael. Trevor had never learned the definition of personal space. “Well, I’m sure _Jen_ won’t mind seeing my beautiful face, hmm?”

The growl Michael gave him was half-hearted. He was too tired to fight back on this – too tired to even think about it. Maybe later, after Trevor had passed out from the combination of alcohol and hazy meth come-down, _maybe_ Michael would think about it. Not now, though.

Very suddenly, it seemed, Trevor’s voice was sliding into Michael’s ear. “Come on, Sugar Tits – _think about it_. Me and you, just like the old days – we had a _grand old time_ , didn’t we? Remember how I used to suck you off, hmm? Remember how you used to _fuck me_ after a job?”

Michael remembered. He’d been remembering for twenty fuckin’ years.

“We could do that again, me and you, and pass Princess Jen around like we used to do with Jackie.”

Michael snorted, almost willing to humor him for a few minutes. It’s gotta be the desert heat getting to him – the heat, and the alcohol withdrawals, and the never-ending depression. _Gotta be_ , if he’s humoring this after telling himself and Trevor both that he wouldn’t deal with it. “It’s funny you think _we’d_ be passing _her_ around.”

“Oh, I’m up for _anything_ , Townley.”

Michael knew that, too.

“I will _think about it_.”

Trevor hooted, gleeful in a way that made Michael’s head ache. “I knew you couldn’t keep up this bullshit charade, you fuck! You want this just as bad as I do.”

“I said I’d _think about it_. That’s not a yes.”

“Oh, but it will be,” Trevor replied, voice dropping low next to Michael’s ear. He shot up out of his seat and damn near bounced down the steps. “Looks like I’ve got shit to do! I’m gonna go get tested – probably should have done that a long time ago actually - and get some condoms that aren’t _expired_ and some _lube_ …”

At that moment, Michael knew he could count this as one of the many fuck-ups in his life.

* * *

Jen had business to take care of over on El Rancho. Said business being a Lester Crest adventure.

Lester, it seemed, needed some files that he couldn’t find on his endless and nearly untraceable network. Apparently, even his scritchy little spider fingers couldn’t get hold plain, ol’ analog paperwork. Cue Jen.

Said files weren’t easy to come by, but as Jen had discovered over the course of her thirty-two years, if she tried _really, really_ hard and asked _really, really_ nicely, she could talk anyone into anything.

Lester’s house looked almost exactly as Jen had expected it to look – roundabouts the same as his sweatshop factory off the expressway, but in a residential format. She was not disappointed. The outside paneling could use a lengthy pressure-washing and quite a bit of yardwork needed to be done, but it was otherwise totally unobtrusive to the houses around it. He buzzed her in before she stepped onto the top porch step, files in hand.

His curt voice crackled over the front-porch speakers as she stepped past the threshold and into Lester’s cave. “Down the hall, back bedroom.”

“Bet you say that to all the girls, don’t you Les?”

Jen could almost see him rolling his eyes as he snapped, “Shut up and get in here before someone sees you.”

“I bet you say that, too.”

Jen stepped over stacks of papers and books, tiptoeing gingerly past bits and pieces of half-constructed electronics.

She followed his instructions and headed down the hall and into Lester’s back bedroom, which didn’t appear to be used as a bedroom. It was wall-to-wall electronics, monitors, more stacks of books and manuals and papers. An expensive junkyard of information.

Lester rolled around in his computer chair to face her. “You got what I asked for?”

“Would I be here if I didn’t?” Jen chose the closest clear space (another chair in the corner that looked rebuttably clean). She handed him the stack of files. “Stapled, perforated, and alphabetized, and acquired very, very quietly.”

He gave the files a cursory flip-through. “And it’s all here?”

“Of course.”

Lester nodded and placed the files on the computer desk behind him. “How’d you get them?”

“Well, ninety-five percent of the time, I can talk my way into pretty much anything,” Jen said, crossing her legs. She placed her hands on her knees almost primly. “The other five percent of the time, I have to use the tacit, illustrious skills I’ve cultivated over the course of my career.”

“Which would be?”

“Unbutton the top two buttons and hand out a fake phone number, and mouthy court clerks suddenly become much more compliant.”

Lester snorted. “The folly of man is a beautiful thing.”

“Ain’t it though?” Jen grinned. “In any case, those files should be useful to the both of us. Should be the unredacted, never-digitized results of every election in the past ten years, including mine. I also included the entire personal and professional histories of IAA Agents John and Karen, right there on paper.”

“You’ve done good work here, Jen,” Lester replied, turning around to check the monitors behind him. Looked like he’d been day-trading before Jen walked in the door. “I’ll put this to good use.”

Jen was very aware that Lester was helping her do peremptory damage control of the election fraud investigation because he had stock in a few private defense firms. But as long as he kept the IAA and FIB from tracking her (which was beneficial to him as well) and did some of the dirty work on her behalf, she’d be more than happy to grab anything he couldn’t get hold.

She told him as much, and added, “So, no one’s tracking me, right?”

Lester didn’t turn to look at her. Instead, he pulled up video feed on one of his many monitors to show her. “They’re trying, but you’re untraceable.”

Jen didn’t pretend to know what she was looking at on the monitor. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“I like that you don’t ask questions.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” Jen teased, laughing when Lester shook his head at her. “Look, I learned a long time ago that I don’t have to know everything. I just have to know someone who does – which, in this case, would be you.”

“Not a bad philosophy to have, all things considered.” This time, Lester turned back around in his computer chair. He seemed antsy for her to leave, but he wasn’t finished with business. “Anyway, have you gotten any word from either of your… boyfriends? They want to start planning that bank robbery this weekend.”

Jen was vaguely aware that’s what they planned on doing with as much of a crew as they could scrounge together for a meeting. She hadn’t asked for details; sometimes knowing the bare minimum was best. All she was sure of was that Michael had called and given her a half-assed _I-miss-you-but-I-don’t-want-to-say-it_ spiel before lightly asking for her to come see him.

“ _Boyfriends_ is a loose qualifier,” Jen snorted. “I’m aware that’s what they’re doing. I suppose you’ll be heading up to Sandy Shores this weekend, then?”

“Saturday, likely. You?”

Jen shrugged. “I’m heading up Friday afternoon, but I won’t stay unless y’all need me to.”

“You may need to stay for the particulars, but we’ll see.”

“Duly noted,” Jen replied. “Hope you’re not meeting at the trailer.”

Lester huffed. “I will never set foot in Trevor Philips’s trailer.”

“Can’t blame you there.” Jen had tried multiple times to convince Michael to just leave the trailer for the night and get a motel. Patricia Madrazo had done an unbelievable job of cleaning the trailer, but the fetid ickiness had simply just penetrated the walls with an incurable funk from the years of neglected hygiene. “Any headway on Madrazo? As much as I like going up to the desert to see them, I don’t enjoy couch time at Trevor’s slice of pig pen paradise quite as much as I enjoy my spotless apartment. I’d really prefer they not be murdered as soon as they set foot in Los Santos.”

“I have no sympathy for you.”

“I don’t have sympathy for myself, so once again, we are on the same page,” Jen shrugged again. “Madrazo?”

Lester turned back to his monitors and pulled up yet another file that Jen didn’t feel the need to decipher. “As soon as Trevor returns his wife, he’ll call off the hit.”

“Well, that’s simple,” Jen observed, fully aware that nothing involving Martin Madrazo would ever be simple. “You’ll have to kill Trevor to get her back to Madrazo, and I don’t think she really wants to go.”

“Never thought I’d see someone get Stockholm Syndrome over Trevor.”

“I can see how that would be surprising, quite frankly.”

That, it seemed, was the end of Lester’s business with Jen. He didn’t like anyone being in his house for too long – especially the fuckin’ DA.

“I’ll update you if you’re needed,” Lester said, waiving his hand back at her. “And I’ll put these files to good use.”

“Always happy to be of service, Les.”

Jen made her merry way out the door and back to her Jester. She had some calls to make if Lester’s plan for the IAA agents was going to work.

* * *

With Michael and Trevor both banned from Los Santos, Jen's life during the week had gotten pretty quiet. Vespucci Beach to Sandy Shores amounted to a little over a four-hour drive, so she wasn't exactly driving up to the desert after work for dinner and drinks. She got Franklin to hang out with her every so often, but both she and Franklin had far too much to do to go to the movies every other day.

Jen hadn't realized until the guys were nearly unavailable how much time they took up in her week. Michael texted her every so often, but he was old-school and didn't like to text a lot. He usually called her at night, which ended up either with phone sex or Jen falling asleep in the middle of the conversation. Trevor just sent her unsolicited pictures occasionally, usually of his dick.

It had been three weeks since she'd last seen Michael in person, and that was enough to make her antsy. She missed him, which was an odd thing to say. She’d never been the sentimental type. She missed his dick, too, which was easier to admit and ninety percent of the reason she felt so twitchy. She'd gotten used to calling him on a whim whenever she was in the mood, and now that she had to routinely take care of herself, she felt all weird and twitchy. The phone sex was fine, but it wasn't _him_ touching her. 

And there was no Trevor around to substitute for Michael (when had she gotten used to _that_?), so she was shit out of luck.

So, when she got the call from Michael on a beautiful, sunny Los Santos afternoon asking her to make the drive, she carefully acquiesced. He sounded on the phone like he was feeling the same way. They'd never promised each other monogamy, but they'd both fallen into the simple routine of knowing what the other wanted when they wanted it. And right then, Jen wanted Michael to do what he did best - fuck her brains out. The plain, vicious urge kept her vibrating in her seat for the entire four-hour drive.

Jen left work a couple hours early with hardly more than a _have-a-good-weekend_ to Mary at the front desk. She revved up her Jester as soon as she checked it out of the parking deck, swung by her house to shower and grab enough clothes and toiletries for the night, and was on her way up to the desert in less than an hour. Her hair was damp, but it would be dried down to wild orange curls before she rolled up to Trevor's trailer.

Jen hadn't asked about Trevor earlier, and frankly she didn't care if he was there or not when she arrived. Nothing was gonna stand between her and getting to Michael. Hell, she didn't care if Trevor watched or joined in himself. She had single-minded determination and a goal to reach, and she was nothing if not an enterprising soul.

Jen drove past the Sandy Shores sign and felt relief wash over her. She'd always liked the desert, even before circumstances had brought her out to it. It felt more like home than Los Santos ever could, or had. The trailers, raunchy motels, convenience stores, and mom-and-pop diners were the same. She'd just traded swamp and snakes for sand and scorpions.

She pulled up to Trevor's trailer and cut the ignition on her Jester. Trevor's rusted red truck was gone, as was the hodgepodge of ATVS usually parked out front, but that didn't mean anything. He tended to leave his truck wherever the amphetamines took effect and tracked it down when he returned to semi-coherency. Instead, Michael's red sedan sat out front, squat and weird and too _dad_.

Jen grabbed her bag out of the passenger seat and marched up to the door. The floor mat at the door was minimalist, but the fact that there was a _floor mat_ just really astounded her. Since Patricia had been here, all the cigarette butts and beer cans that usually littered the porch were gone. There were even little plant pots (but not pot plants, surprisingly) sunning on the porch rails.

She turned the doorknob and groaned when she found it was locked. She had a key, but it was the extra thirty seconds of time that got under her skin. She’d purposefully worn the loosest t-shirt she owned and leggings into the desert, but every stitch of clothing on her body constricted her, like it was latched permanently onto her skin by sweat and stubbornness. She shoved the door open, slammed it shut behind her, and turned in the direction of the blaring TV.

Jen dropped her bag next to the front door without bothering to see exactly where it landed. Michael sat on the couch in his cargo shorts and polo shirt, sipping from a beer bottle, and watching some old Western movie on Trevor’s shitty TV. He barely had time to turn and smirk at her before she was stalking across the room over to him.

She straddled his lap, shoved him back against the couch, and all but smashed her mouth to his. His hands were up her shirt in an instant, fingers trailing up and down her back. A shiver ran through her as his fingertips bumped along her spine; she bucked into him when he did it again just to watch her squirm.

He pulled away from her after a minute, a grin plastered across his face. "What, no hello?"

Jen blinked and licked her bottom lip. He was teasing, of course. He had to be. He couldn't resist screwing with her, even with her grinding down into his lap. "Hi."

Michael trailed his fingers down her sides, rubbing circles into her hips with his thumbs. "What if I wanted you to ask me about my day or-?"

Jen rolled her hips, sinking down into his lap, effectively cutting him off. She could already feel his cock pressing against her cunt through her leggings. "You want to recite a monologue, or you want to get your dick wet? Because I had a four-hour drive up here and I'm ready to go, darlin’."

"Option two, please."

Jen tugged her shirt up over her head and tossed it on top of her bag. "That’s what I like to hear, darlin’."

Jen hadn't bothered to put on a bra under her loose black t-shirt. She wrapped her arms around Michael's shoulders as he slid his hands up her stomach to grab her breasts. His mouth found one of her nipples, his tongue delicately pushing the silver ring through one while his fingers pulled at the other. She kissed his forehead and slipped her hand down between them, palming his thick cock through his pants. He slid his hands down to her hips, guiding her as she rolled her hips down. He rutted up against her, groaning against her mouth every time she pressed down on his dick. 

Michael pulled away from her, albeit unwillingly, to lean his head back against her wrists. "You know Trevor's here, right?"

"Don't care," Jen replied, taking his pause as an opportunity to tug his shirt over his head. She tossed it over in the corner with her stuff. Her hands stroked the span of his shoulders, down his chest. She squeezed his hips, running her hands down to his thighs. “He can watch if he wants. Probably wouldn’t be the first time he’s watched you fuck someone.”

"You want it that bad?" Michael asked, breathless. He bucked up into her again, pulling a thick whine from her throat. "There’s other people here and you still want it that bad?”

"Oh, yes, darlin’, I want it that bad," Jen replied coyly, lips pressed to his ear. She climbed out of his lap and rolled her leggings down, leaving her in her underwear. Her panties were black like everything else she owned and didn’t do much to cover up the intended area. "Shorts off, big man."

Michael leaned his head back against the couch. “Oh, fuck, _yes_!”

As Michael scrambled to unbuckle his pants, as if on cue, Trevor strode out of his bedroom. He didn’t seem surprised by what he found transpiring on his couch, but he did seem very, _very_ interested. He whistled, leaning against the kitchen counter. "Well, look what we have here! Wasn't expecting to get a free show tonight!"

Jen looked over her shoulder at him. "Watch or get out but be quiet if you’re gonna stay."

Trevor mimed zipping his mouth and pulled a chair from under the bar. "Oh, don't mind me. Uncle T will be just fine over here."

Jen laughed. “Oh, I bet you will.”

Michael grabbed her hips and pulled her back between his legs. He slid his hands down her thighs, slowly _slowly_ , leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. Jen had always loved his hands - they were rough against her skin from the calluses on his palms, warm and gentle when he wanted to be, with thick, expert fingers. Up, up, he moved until he hooked his fingers underneath the sides of her underwear. He didn’t pull them down, not yet, just massaged little circles into her flushed skin. 

His face was level with her chest; he had to look up at her to get a glimpse of her reaction. Jen watched him, fascinated, and altogether impatiently frustrated by his teasing, as he kissed down her chest, pausing to flick his tongue across each nipple. He kissed down her stomach, right down to her navel, and as he arrived at the waistband of her panties, he pulled them down over her hips with his teeth and hands. He kissed down the line of her slit, looking up at her as he went. She bit her lip and dug her nails into his shoulder, but he didn’t flinch. He reached around to squeeze her ass, his short, bitten nails equally just as vicious against her skin as hers were against his.

“Come here, babygirl,” Michael growled, his voice rough. He pulled her into his lap, squeezing her thighs as she straddled him. Jen took the base of his cock in her hand, trailing her fingertips gently along his length. He bucked up into her hand with a short, shuddering groan. “Come on, don’t tease me. You were the one hot and ready to go when you got here.”

Jen positioned herself over him, rubbing the head of his cock against her slit. "If I had the patience right now to tease you, you'd already be begging and you know it. You don’t know even _know_ what teasing is.”

Michael knew he was probably leaving bruises on her sides with how tightly he was squeezing her. He tried not to shift his hips - she’d keep fucking with him if he bucked up against her. “You gonna show me, princess? You think you're gonna make me beg?”

Jen smirked. “Not in front of the guests. At least, not this time.”

She braced herself against him, one hand grasping his shoulder, and sank down on him with a soft moan. Her cunt ached as she bottomed out on his cock. He filled her up so completely, so perfectly, that as soon as the intense burn dissipated, she rocked her hips against his. There would be no edging, no teasing and begging, no playfully holding out or thinking about baseball. This was sloppy and rough, born out of desperation and need. She needed friction and release, and she needed it as soon as she could get it. 

Michael ran his hands up her thighs, up her stomach, grabbing at her tits and squeezing as hard as he dared. He thrust up to meet her every time she bore down on him, hard enough to make her cry out. She hooked her hand under his chin and squeezed his throat, bringing his mouth up to meet hers. He didn't have enough hands to put them in all the places she needed, so he wrapped his arms around her back and braced her solidly so she could grind down on him.

Michael pulled away from her when she groaned a little too close to the edge of pain for his liking against his mouth. He liked it rough and she did too, but the last thing he wanted was to genuinely hurt her. He always backed off when she made that sound, but sometimes she'd ignore the pain and keep going anyway.

"Hey, hey, you okay? You close?" he asked, absolutely breathless. He was pretty close to coming - his stomach was tight and his balls were starting to ache. He grabbed her hips so she couldn't bear down so hard. "Tell me what you need, princess."

Jen's voice broke. "So - so close. I just - I'm _right there_ , but I can't - quite…"

He pressed his mouth to her cheek, her throat, right up to her ear. "I've got an idea that might help. Wanna try something?"

"Please - _please_ , Mike. I'm _right there_ – what is it?"

He grinned, his tongue delicately tracing the shell of her ear. "I've only got two hands. Wanna get a little help from Trevor?"

Jen started, pausing over him. "Seriously…?"

"If you’re interested…"

She nodded, but that was about all she could do. " _Please._ "

Michael looked over her shoulder. Trevor had, so far, been amazingly quiet - he sat on his barstool with his hand down his pants, watching quietly as he'd been instructed. When he heard his name, he broke out of his own reverie and perked up immediately.

Michael grasped Jen's hips, slowly rolling up into her. "Wanna lend a hand?"

Trevor strode across the room and stood behind Jen, pressing against her back. “Way ahead of you. This okay with you, princess?”

Jen nodded, for the most part too breathless to speak. She dug her nails into Michael's shoulders, clenching and unclenching her hands. She'd apologize for whatever bruises or marks she'd left in him later.

As Jen steadied herself, Michael kept hold of her hips. He'd reset the pace, slower and a little kinder than before, and much less desperate. Now, he thrust up into her with purpose and the explicit intention of holding off just long enough to get her to cum. He looked up over Jen's shoulder at Trevor, who had so far just pulled his shirt over his head and pressed against her back to give her some leverage.

Trevor kissed the top of her head, a strangely tender gesture for someone who got off on his partners making him bleed. He reached around with one hand to toy with her nipples while the other hand trailed down her stomach to her clit, pressing two fingers against her slit and massaging in circles in time with Michael’s upward thrusts. With his fingers coated in wetness, he nudged the little bud he found until, finally, her last bit of decorum broke. 

Jen felt like she’d stuck her finger in a light socket - every touch sent a hazy jolt right up her spine. Michael was still taking his sweet time but had taken to thrusting up a little harder, a little faster, with each stroke.

Trevor had pulled his cock out of his pants and squished himself up against her lower back. She grabbed his arm – the one not attached to the hand currently circling her clit - and dragged him next to her so he wasn’t pressed up against her back. She took him in hand, running her hand up the length of him. He’d clearly been close already; it didn’t take more than few passes of her hand before he came into her fist.

Finally, finally, the burn in her abdomen spilled over, and she came with a whimper as Michael thrust up into her. She squeezed his shoulders, raked her nails down his back, and kissed him so hard her clacked against his. Without pausing to let Michael work her through it, she climbed out of his lap and onto the couch next to him, ignoring his protests.

She snapped her fingers at Trevor and glanced over to Michael after curling up on the couch. “Finish him.”

Trevor cocked his head, grin splitting his face. “How do you want me to do that, sweetheart?”

Jen shrugged, glancing between the two of them like she’d already caught onto something they hadn’t told her. “I think your mouth will do just fine.”

Trevor looked down at Michael, Cheshire grin only getting wider. “What do ya say, Sugar Tits?”

Michael didn’t grin back, but there was a particular heat in his eyes that Trevor hadn’t seen in _years_. “Do as the lady says.”

Trevor dropped to his knees and buried his face in Michael’s lap, taking him all the way down to the root. He doesn’t bother to try to prolong things – not with the way Michael panted and dugs his fingers into his shoulders, rooted through his dark hair. Michael fucked his throat, and Trevor let him control the pace, tears stinging his eyes. And after not much time at all – hardly more than a few emphatic strokes – Michael came down his throat, not bothering to pull Trevor off of him.

Trevor liked it that way anyway.

There was a moment of stillness, almost complacency, before Jen laughed. She leaned back against the armrest of the couch and stretched out, resting her legs in Michael’s lap. She hummed, “If I’d known this is what you two wanted to do, I’d have gotten here sooner.”

Trevor grinned his triumphant grin and leered up at Michael from his place between his knees. “I fuckin’ told you she’d love it.”

Michael glared down at him. “Shut up.”

“So, you two discussed this?” Jen asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, once or twice,” Trevor replied, winking at her. “He finally _came around to it_.”

Michael shook his head. “Jesus Christ.”

He was never going to hear the end of this - from either of them, by the looks on their faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting back on track now that I have five minutes to breathe!


	15. Main Mission // Fertility Idol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Serial killers and threesomes and feelings, oh my!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having fun. Are you having fun? Because I'm having fun. Yeah, you're having fun.

Another day at the office meant another day spent entertaining IAA agents and Steve Haines. The very sight of them gave Jen a splitting headache.

Jen had woken up that morning much the same way as she had the past few weeks: blood in her mouth, never-ending pain in her jaw, and a tension headache that just wouldn’t go away. As usual, and on an ever-increasing scale, she’d spent another night chewing on the inside of her cheeks and stress-grinding her teeth, and the ensuing pain that morning was truly spectacular. If she were one of those good ol’ boy middle-aged attorneys, she’d hide a bottle of scotch in her desk and take a shot every now and then, but alas, she wasn’t quite so weak-willed. Aspirin would have to do.

MaryAnn, bless her, had given her the gift of coffee and painkillers that morning. She, too, was feeling the pain of the IAA agents’ presence, as she couldn’t get near the filing cabinets in the front office without being hissed and snarled at by government interns. After two screaming matches, MaryAnn had given up on retrieving her case files and holed up in Jen’s office to help her go through the serial killer case file presently contributing to Jen’s multitudinous stress.

What she found in Jen’s usually pristine office was a something akin to dumpster fire – or, at the very least, a simmering mental breakdown waiting to happen.

Jen had set up a huge board in her office to create a timeline for the case file. Being that it was a timeline for multiple murders, the scene was altogether macabre. The crime scene pictures were horrendous, but Jen had learned to glaze over them – look at them without actually _looking at them_.

MaryAnn wasn’t fairing quite so well, but she was doing her best. Each photo made her stomach turn more violently than the one that preceded it. “When are you trying this case?”

Jen tore her attention away from the board. “Not this trial calendar. Probably the next. So, probably in a couple of months.”

“Good riddance,” MaryAnn grimaced. Her voice grated in Jen’s already overstimulated ears. “This is disgusting.”

The grotesque pictures were something out of a low budget indie movie – bloody, bound bodies stretched and flayed open and rooms coated in human debris.

“It’s one of the nastier ones,” Jen agreed.

MaryAnn almost didn’t want to ask, but as Chief Assistant, she was obligated to. “Do you want me second chair on this?”

“Yeah,” Jen said. She pointed to the bottom row of pictures – officers combing through the scene. “There’s a bunch of officers that I need help directing.”

“Did somebody say officers?”

Jen looked back to find Haines and Dave standing in the doorway. Haines, clad in his usual patriarchal athleisurewear leaned against the door frame while Dave, in his again brown suit hovered directly behind his boss. She sighed, and not for the first time today, tasted blood on the inside of her cheek.

MaryAnn was just as displeased by the presence of the two FIB agents but lacked the loyalty to weather the visit alongside Jen. She glared and jumped up from her chair. “Call me when they’re gone.”

“Yeah, sure.” Jen returned to her board, doing her best to make it seem like she was too busy to deal with them (which she was, and not that it mattered anyway). “What do you two want? And how did you get back here?”

“Mary was kind enough to let us in. Told her you were expecting us,” Haines said, planting his ass firmly in one of the cushy chairs in front of Jen’s desk. “I think she likes me.”

Jen scoffed. As if anyone would like _Steve Haines_ or his frat dad athleisurewear. “Looks like she and I need to have a talk.”

Dave was his usual calm self, occasionally making comments and sipping from his Bean Machine coffee mug, but Haines spent most of the morning cracking jokes and slurping on his coffee, running his mouth about how well his T.V. show was doing in the ratings this month.

Jen stabbed another thumbtack into her board with far more aggression than was really necessary. The board shook in protest. “You two are in a good mood.”

Haines, who still hadn’t developed the ability to keep his dirty ass shoes off of Jen’s desk, lounged back in his chair like he owned it. “Yeah, we’re about to get the funding we’ve been waiting for!”

Jen didn’t bother shooing him away from her desk. She’d disinfect the office whenever she finally ran them off. “Good for you. Why are you here?”

Haines ignored her question, instead studying her board with some amount of interest. “That looks like a doozy.”

“Murders always are.” Another stab with the thumbtack. “You’re distracting me.”

Again, Haines ignored her comments. “You done anything with The Lost case?”

Not since she found out that Trevor was directly involved in it, no.

Jen sighed. “I told you last week I turned it over to the federal prosecutors. I don’t have the resources or the patience to spearhead with a multi-state, multi-jurisdictional RICO case. Nor the jurisdiction to do so since they’re all over state borders.”

Haines grinned, and Jen’s stomach turned at the sight. “It all goes back to funding.”

“And black letter law,” Jen said, rolling her eyes. “You keep talking about funding - are you gonna get mine bumped up like you told me you would? Or are you gonna sit here with your nasty ass shoes on my desk, swinging your money dick around?”

Haines shrugged, dismissing her question with a waive of his hand. “I told you, I’ll handle it!”

“You sound like every shitty ex-boyfriend I’ve ever had.”

He grinned. “Speaking of boyfriends, you know, yours are helping us with _funding_.”

“I’ll pretend you didn’t make _boyfriend_ plural,” Jen paused. “And what do you mean, they’re helping out with funding?”

Jen already knew the answer, but she wanted to see if Haines would give it to her.

“We need funding, they’re helping us get it.”

She brandished a thumbtack at him, causing Dave to reach out and push her hand back down before she actually stabbed someone with it. “If you don’t give me a straight fucking answer-”

“Geeze, you’re in a bad mood today. What’s crawling your ass?” Haines laughed. “Must be all the IAA stooges poking around, huh? Impending incarceration for you and your buddies, the loss of community regard and respect-”

“If you had done your goddamn job and taken care of this like you said you would, the IAA wouldn’t be here in the first place!” She turned back to her board, determined to keep her temper. “And let me see you try to lock me up. You’ll be dead before you can get the cuffs on me.”

“Is that a threat?”

Dave, at that moment, finally decided to step in. When had he become a mediator? This was beyond his pay grade. “Before this gets any uglier, will you both calm down? We’re taking care of it. We’ll get the IAA agents out of here as quick as we can.”

“I want them out of here before I have to try this fucking serial killer case.” Jen gestured at the board. “Do you see this? This will take weeks!”

“Far be it from us to impede the course of justice.”

Haines relaxed back into his chair, though he still looked to be on edge. “Once Townley and Philips get us our funding, we’ll have all the Agency spooks out of here.”

“This is the last promise you make to me, and I will hold you to that,” Jen snapped. “Oh, and if you get my boyfriend killed or you lie to me again, I will make sure to release your names and addresses to all the suspected serial killers I currently have cases against, as well as Trevor Philips.”

"You wouldn't dare-"

"Wanna bet? Because if you don’t get the IAA out of here, then I won't really have anything let to lose,” Jen said, turning back to her board. She pointed towards her office door. “Now, get the fuck out of my office before I do it anyway.

The threat seemed to genuinely unnerve both agents, and they left grumbling. 

Once Jen was sure they were out of the office and well on their way back to their cars, she pulled out her phone. She’d gotten into the habit of recording the conversations every time Haines and Dave stopped by her office. By now, Lester had enough material to cobble together some convincing, incriminating tapes, should they need them. 

Speaking of Lester, he picked up before the end of the first ring. “Your boyfriends already left for Blaine County Savings and Loan.”

“Don't tell me anything. The less I know, the better,” Jen replied, holding the phone between her shoulder and cheek. Her mouth throbbed - an unfortunate reminder that she still hadn’t gone to get a mouth guard. “Keeps things simple.”

“Plausible deniability.”

“Oh, we’re long past that. If you boys go down, I go down with you,” Jen said. She worked her jaw to try to kill some of the pain. “Speaking of going down, you got those files ready?”

“Digitized and ready to be distributed to all interested buyers who will then leak them into the news. I’ll send you your cut shortly.”

“Perfect. Let’s see how long Karen and John last with all of their covers blown and the never-before-digitized election results out in public.” She shifted the phone to her other ear to relieve some of the pressure. “I owe you one.”

“We’re square,” came Lester’s curt answer. He sounded a bit gleeful. “The bump in stocks alone will be worth the twenty minutes of effort.”

Jen grinned. “Happy trading, Les.”

Jen had no more gotten off the phone than another call came in - this time from Franklin.

“You got a problem.”

Jen sighed. “I’ve always got a problem. Which one is this?”

“Amanda.”

Jen paused. “I won’t pretend that’s been a problem before because it surprisingly hasn’t. Why is Amanda a problem?”

Franklin’s voice was shot through with static. He must have been driving. “‘Cause she called me just now, asked me if M was alright.”

“How’d she get your number?”

“I don’t know, but she got it.”

Jen almost didn’t want to ask, but she did. “What’d you tell her?”

“I told her to take it up with Michael.”

“Well, that’s all you can really do.”

“She sounded like she wants him back,” Franklin warned. “You gonna do anything about that?”

“We have an arrangement. Nothing I can really do.”

He snorted into the phone. “Y’all are somethin’ else.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“Try to take it easy.”

“Be safe, Frank.”

Jen ended the call and tossed her phone back on the desk. Maybe once she got the all-clear from the guys on the Paleto job, she’d head up to Sandy Shores. Seemed like a couple of nights out in the desert would help with all the stress.

* * *

They’d been driving down the Senora Freeway for nearly an hour, just to have _something to do_.

Driving around aimlessly wasn’t an unfamiliar occurrence to any of the three individuals currently squished into the cab of Trevor’s monstrous truck. It was a favorite pastime for each of them in some respect. 

Trevor had a bad habit of shooting up and driving around for hours before pulling off to the side of the road. He’d leave his truck wherever it happened to be and retrieve it hours, maybe days, later once he finally caught wind of where he might have left it.

Michael would spend hours in traffic driving aimlessly just to get away from his house. Sometimes he’d go out for a drink, sometimes he’d wind up at the movie theater to watch whatever was playing, but most of the time he just drove around until the simmering temper tantrum abated itself.

Jen had grown up in a small town - driving around was the only thing to do. Though she’d long since grown up and moved away, there was nothing quite like driving around with the windows down and blaring music to help get her blood pressure down.

The drive they were on now was more so to get them out of Trevor’s trailer for an afternoon. They’d already been to the diner for dinner, so the only thing left to do was, well, _this_. (Or T.V., but the whole point of this was to _leave the tiny funky trailer_.) 

Presently, Jen was tucked into Michael’s side, having chosen to ride in the middle of the cab (as she was the only one short enough to comfortably do so). Her attention for the past hour had been firmly supplied to her phone, replying to emails and reading trashy Vinewood articles. Michael had been shamelessly reading over her shoulder for the past hour, trying to ignore the blaring punk music thrumming through Trevor’s truck speakers.

Jen scanned an article detailing the financial downturn of Richards Majestic which, in no uncertain terms, pinned the downfall on Solomon Richards’ age and Devin Weston’s investment skills. Jen was aware Michael was doing work for Solomon Richards (when he wasn’t being exiled to the desert), but she didn’t know the media had gotten wind of it. In addition to the financial downturn of the studio, the article alleged rumors that Solomon had hired help on the movie set (Michael) to _enforce morale_.

“You know, if you wanted to meet Solomon Richards, I could have just introduced you,” Jen said, tilting her head up towards Michael.

Jen couldn’t see the face he made, but she could hear the incredulity in his voice when he answered. “You never told me you knew him.”

She’d gone to college with Solomon’s great-niece. There were pictures in her bedroom to prove it (not that Michael had looked).

“You didn’t ask,” Jen teased, bumping his chest with her shoulder. “Besides, I never thought you’d be working for him.”

“You could’ve still mentioned it.”

With Michael clearly still reading over her shoulder, she typed in a short message for him to read. _Watch this_. She glanced over her shoulder at him and nodded to Trevor. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the barest hint of a grin.

Ever since she’d known Michael, he’d always been… not repressed necessarily, but definitely stuck in his ways as far as his preferences went. There must be some residual nostalgia from the good ol’ days fueling his overextended ego, but she’d never seen Michael quite so _comfortable_. He’d downright astounded her by loosening up enough to bring Trevor into the mix. Yeah, he was a jealous son of a bitch and they both knew it, but maybe Trevor’s presence had helped to abate some of the repression that kept him so stolidly vanilla.

That being said, Jen had already gotten _way too used_ to the comfortable dynamic, and she knew it. But it would be fun while it lasted, right? Before Michael went back to Amanda and they fell back into the old routine.

The more Jen thought about _that_ idea, the less she liked it. So, as with anything and everything vaguely emotional, she shoved it right to the back of her mind with all the other repressed clutter.

Without moving away from her spot tucked under Michael’s arm, Jen reached up to run her fingertips along the back of Trevor’s neck. The touch wasn’t necessarily sexual, but Jen was more than aware that he _really, really liked that_.

He jerked away from her fingers. “Stop – I’ll fall asleep if you do that.”

Jen dropped her hand to the space between his shoulder blades, pressing down just hard enough to make him sigh. “I’ll keep you awake. Just keep driving.”

“How are you gonna keep me awake? You know – ”

Trevor made a strangled cough and stopped when Jen slid her free hand along the front of his sweatpants, palming him through the fabric. He stiffened considerably, and quickly, responsive to the point of Pavlovian training by a simple touch. Keeping her movements gentle, she unsnapped the closures at the front of his sweats and slipped her hand in, running a finger up his half-hard shaft.

He groaned. “I swear if I have to pull over, you’re not gonna be able to walk for a week.”

Jen shifted closer to rest her chin on his shoulder, her lips dangerously close to his ear. “I think it’s more likely that once I’m done with you, I’ll have to drive us home.”

She felt him twitch in her hand.

His rough voice dropped an octave. “Why’s that?”

“Pull over and find out.” As if she needed to convince him any further, she said, “Come on, let’s give Michael a show.”

Faster than he should have, Trevor tore off the freeway and onto a back supply road. It was bumpy and unpaved and kicked up dust and desert sand into the afternoon sun. Once he was satisfied they were far enough off the paved road that prying eyes wouldn’t easily find them, he cut the ignition and tossed the keys into the front dash console.

Jen climbed over his lap and straddled him, hand still pumping and fisting him under the sweatpants. She wrapped a hand around his throat, thumb attenuated to the pulse point under his chin, and pinned him to the headrest. He relaxed into her grip and bucked into her hand, groaning in his rough _Trevor_ way.

Michael chuckled from his corner as he watched. “Don’t break him.”

Jen twisted her fist and was rewarded by Trevor’s hands grabbing her backside so he could haul her closer. “No promises.”

Trevor squeezed – there’d be fingertip bruises there come morning. “Do whatever you want.”

She grinned. “That’s more like it.”

Turning Trevor’s head to the side, thumb still caressing the pulse under his jaw, Jen leaned in right next to his ear so that only he could hear. “I’ll finish you first, and then you can watch me fuck Michael, alright?”

Panting, he nodded. “Whatever you want to do, Princess.”

She was starting to like that – not that she’d tell them.

Jen pushed her thumb into his mouth, ordering him to suck. Rocking down into his lap, she twisted her fist, pleased by the almost pained groans vibrating her thumb.

After a few dry pumps, she extracted her thumb from his mouth and held out her hand. “Lick it.”

He did as he was told, and she switched hands to give him a little better friction. Her unoccupied hand came back up to his throat and held him there. Not much pressure – just enough to keep him panting.

It didn’t take much to get him to cum – just a few well-placed strokes, a few heated words into his ear, just enough pressure on his windpipe. He whined and came into her hand, spilling over her fist and painting the bottom of his shirt with cum.

Jen climbed out of Trevor’s lap and back into the seat next to him. With some creatively flexible movements, she stripped out of her shorts and underwear and climbed over to Michael, sitting backwards in his lap so she could watch Trevor recover. With one hand braced on the roll cage overhead and the other on the headrest, she relaxed back into Michael’s waiting lap.

They’d done this before – good ol’ car sex. Not a whole lot better than a rough fuck in the car when you just can’t stand the wait. Not quite like this, of course – the open-cab truck and presence of a third individual was new – but it was easy to fall into the usual rhythm.

There was really nothing quite like the feeling of Michael’s large, callused hands on her skin. He slid his hands up under her shirt, skimming her waist, and grabbed at her breasts, thumbing her nipples while she rocked backwards into his lap.

Michael hooked his chin into the crook of her shoulder, pressing his lips to her smooth skin. He glanced up to watch Trevor’s face – his response. This was for show just as much as it was for satisfaction. Michael wasn’t one to leave anything to the imagination, but he took his time working her under her shirt while Trevor looked on in near-disbelief, gaze foggy from the pleasured haze overtaking his brain.

He pinched her nipples just a little too hard when she rocked back against him, searching for any amount of friction. She could take her time teasing and tormenting them both later – she’d worked herself up so fast with Trevor that she didn’t have the patience to wait. There was gonna be a hell of a wet spot in Michael’s lap from her grinding down on him - made even more noticeable by the fact he was wearing _khakis_ \- but he couldn’t quite make himself care. It was a badge of honor, really – proof that she loved this and she wanted _him_ , even with someone else watching.

The demand came out more breathless than Michael was hoping, but Jen probably got satisfaction from it. “Lift up, baby.”

Jen did as he asked without comment for once, sitting primly on his thigh while he yanked his zipper down. She worked her clit while Trevor watched, grinning wickedly and holding up her shirt so he could get a clear view of her thumb at her clit and her fingers disappearing into her entrance.

Trevor’s face was downright priceless, caught between disbelief and the barely restrained desire to do _something_. He had _ideas_ , oh yes, like burying his face between Jen’s thighs or Michael’s thighs or _whoever was fucking closer_ and letting one or both of them use his mouth, grind up against him or force his head down – the list goes on. He was ready to get busy crossing some stuff off that list.

Michael grabbed her hips and guided her down onto his waiting cock, hissing between his teeth at the sensation. His hands found her breasts again, pinching and pulling at her nipples, sliding the tiny silver rings through. She kept working at her clit while she rocked down on him, not bothering to give him time to adjust to the feeling of her clenching down on him.

Again, it didn’t take much. The friction was exquisite, the heat _just right_ , contrasted by the breeze flowing through the cab. Teasing was great and all, but this was lovely and feral and _delicious_. He grabbed her waist as he came, filling her up and fucking her through it.

Left to her own devices, Jen climbed off of him and sat back on his thigh, working herself up. She hadn’t quite finished, and Michael hadn’t bothered to _think about baseball_ or whatever men did to stave off the rush of climax, but she could handle herself no problem.

This time, though, Jen didn’t have to finish herself. Trevor yanked her closer and dipped his head down between her thighs, hand under one of her thighs so he could get a better angle. She wound her hand into his hair and held him there, grinding up against his mouth while he groaned against her. She came across his tongue with a short groan.

All was quiet for a while, but after a minute, Trevor handed Jen the keys to the truck. “You drive home.”

* * *

It may have been Trevor’s bright idea to rob a Merriweather train, but it was Michael’s even more brilliant idea to offer their ill-gotten gains to Madrazo as a bribe for peace. The drug lord had a fascination with those creepy fertility idols, so one made of solid gold should do the trick nicely. (Now, if Michael could convince Trevor to give him back his wife, they’d be in business.)

Though the weeks out in the desert were interspersed with moments of fun, Michael was raring to get back to his home, his bed, and his nice, hot shower. Then, he could focus on fixing his family and winning Amanda back.

Presently, Michael was stomping along the San Andreas beach, then sand giving way under his feet and Trevor on his heels, the sun beating down on his back relentlessly. The soaking wetsuit didn’t help; he felt like a stuffed sausage, and he was pretty sure the blistering sun was cooking him through the black material.

Michael was ready to take the damn briefcase, along with Madrazo’s wife, to Madrazo, so he could finally go back to his own home. No, he couldn’t say hiding out with Trevor had been _terrible_ (it really hadn’t, Michael just didn’t want to be there), but he wanted to go home and sleep in his own bed. The dirty couch wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever slept on, but it definitely couldn’t compare to his unnecessarily expensive king bed at home.

The heat only sent the tensions between the two of them hurtling towards boiling point. The minute Michael had brought up handing the fertility idol over to Madrazo as a sign of peace, Trevor did what Trevor does and exploded into one of his usual tirades, screaming about how he _wasn’t afraid of the Mexican motherfucker_ and a whole host of other additives.

After what amounted to a knock-down, drag-out fight on the beach, Michael had finally talked Trevor down from whatever ledge he was standing on. Once he got him relatively calmed down (which was certainly not one of Michael’s skills – he was much better at egging him on), he talked Trevor into giving up the fertility idol they’d stolen.

“You gotta give his wife back too, T,” Michael stated with some finality. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was ashamed that he’d had to pull out his _dad voice_ on a grown ass man. “That’s part of the deal if we want him to cancel the hit.”

“I couldn’t give less of a shit if he cancels the hit or not!”

“I do! I wanna go home!”

“Oh, boo hoo, you want to go back to that cesspool of a city? Why, so you can drink your shitty lattes or your green smoothies or whatever the fuck it is that you do now?”

The self-righteous hipster problems never ceased. “Jesus fuckin’ _Christ_ – yes! I want to go to my family!”

“You didn’t give a fuck about them until you didn’t have them in your _direct possession_ , you ungrateful asshole!”

Alright, that one stung a little.

“I thought we were your family too, you prick,” Trevor snarked, but his voice had dropped a few decibels. “Me, F, Lester, Jen? Ring a bell?”

Michael sighed. “T, please…”

Finally, Trevor threw his hands up. “Fine, I’ll take her back! But it’s not for you! Patricia is a wonderful lady and I respect her too much to hold her back!”

In the heat of the argument and under the blazing sun, they’d meandered over to the vehicles Ron left out on the beach for them. Michael chose the truck rather than the dune buggy – sleeping on Trevor’s filthy couch had left his back in a mess, so he wanted the nicer vehicle.

Michael opened the driver’s side door of the truck and tossed the briefcase into the passenger seat. “You’re not exactly the marrying kind, T.”

“Maybe not,” Trevor scoffed, stalking towards his own vehicle. He didn’t want to agree, but he kind of had to. Still, he wasn’t ending this argument without making some points of his own. “But unlike _you_ , at least _I_ know when to let a lady move on with her life.”

Michael stopped dead with his ass halfway onto the driver’s seat. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I _mean_ what I _said_.” Trevor rolled his eyes. He was on a roll, and he wasn’t stopping. “You’re so hot and ready and raring to get back to L.S. so you can go win your wife back that you haven’t even thought twice about how our Princess Jen feels.”

“There’s no _our_ to _Princess Jen_.” Michael shook his head. When Trevor had started calling her that, Michael couldn’t put his finger on. He’d gotten better about learning to share, but that didn’t mean he was _good_ at it. “And I’m sure she’ll be happy to have things back to normal.”

“‘ _Normal_?’” Trevor asked, barking out a short, derisive laugh. “So, you’re gonna go get Amanda back, right? And Jen’s gonna have to watch you leave every night knowing that you’re going back to someone else’s bed.”

“We’ve been doing this for nearly seven years, Trevor,” Michael snapped. “We have an arrangement.”

“Yeah, well, I think your little _arrangement_ is about to get a hard shake-up,” Trevor replied, stalking closer. “You think Amanda’s gonna be okay with you slinking back in at 2AM? And Jen’s gonna keep being okay watching you leave? Nah, nah -,” Trevor spit in the sand at his feet, “not after these past couple of months out here in Sandy Shores. It’s gotta be this heat fucking with your brain if you think that’s gonna fly.”

“Cut the bullshit - what’s your fucking point?!”

Trevor leaned against the hood of the truck. “You need to figure out who you’re gonna let go, because you’re gonna have to let go of one of ‘em.”

Ever since Michael was about eighteen years old, he’d been used to having his cake and eating it, too. Whatever he wanted, if it could be bought or stolen, it was his. All this meaning to say, well, he hadn’t exactly thought of that.

He hated when Trevor was right.

Not that Michael would admit that. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Trevor slammed his hand against the hood of the truck and pointed at Michael. “You _know_ I’m right!”

“This isn’t your goddamn business!”

“Did you miss the part where you fucked the both of us on every surface in my home?” Trevor inched ever closer, putting Michael on edge. “Jen _is_ my goddamn business! I’ve fucked that girl, same as you - at the _same time_ as you. I love her, Michael – same way I love you, brother. Now, you need to figure out if _you_ love her, you fucking snake.”

Michael slammed the truck door. “Of course I love her!”

And Trevor’s smug face hit him.

Michael stopped, slack-jawed, and in that moment, he realized he had _severely_ fucked up. He had done the natural, logical, effortless thing and fallen in love with her - and now he had to face the fact that it might be time for him to walk away.

Maybe he'd always known his feelings ran deeper than they should, but he’d always thought it didn't matter. He'd thought, somewhat proudly, he could walk away when the time inevitably came. And now that he was confronting the possibility - the probability - that he would have to clean up his act in order to win Amanda back, he realized just how badly he’d fucked up.

He'd always known that whatever they had between them would come to an end eventually, just as it had with Jackie and Trevor all those years ago. Except this time he didn't know if he could do the smart thing and walk away so each of them could get on with their lives. 

"Oh, shit."

Trevor nodded, obviously validated from the smug line his mouth was set in. “I suggest you get your shit together, my friend - quickly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI, Y'ALL, I PASSED THE BAR EXAM THANK YOU GOODNIGHT.
> 
> Big thanks to Verbos for being awesome and listening to me whine about writer's block. I got a surge of inspiration today (probably some combination of a different medication and a lot of coffee on my day off) to finish my editing, and hopefully it won't be another three months for me to edit the next chapter (it's gonna be a DOOZY).
> 
> Also, pssstttt verbs did you catch it??? i<3u friend.


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